


Baker Street Boys

by Snowwhitebri



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, A Chance At Happiness, Case Fic, Declarations Of Love, Don't copy to another site, Eventual Smut, Feels Like Sunday Morning, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hopeful Sherlock, Humor, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mild Smut, Mycroft Has a Goldfish, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Mycroft Holmes likes to be told what to do, Mycroft is a BAMF, Post-Season/Series 04, Revenge, Romance, Smut, THE SUN IS SHINING, conflicted feelings, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:07:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 84,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22667503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowwhitebri/pseuds/Snowwhitebri
Summary: Sherlock had asked Greg to make sure Mycroft was looked after, but Greg Lestrade is a man of action, and he takes this job as any other favor done for the every-maturing Consulting Detective. Is this the beginning of his own dreams coming true?There are always obstacles, Sherlock and John both know this all too well. Greg and Mycroft soon find out what it's like, with the help of Sherlock and John, just to add a sprinkle of family tension in the mix.This fanfic is post-series, but includes elements from S4E4 TFP, so some spoilers!
Relationships: Greg Lestrade & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 66
Kudos: 164





	1. Investigation Instigation

**Author's Note:**

> My first fanfic, please be gentle. I'll be updating weekly on my day off.

**2005, New Scotland Yard**

Murder. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade smiled to himself as he typed away on the computer. It had been a strange week so far. Not seven days ago, he had been at the scene of a victim, an older woman, found dead in a sauna. But despite the location in which they found her, the ME had done a preliminary evaluation and declared that the woman died of Hypothermia, much to his chagrin. Greg Lestrade was not new to murder or crime, of course, but the pressure of being recently promoted to Detective Inspector from his previous Sergeant role had his head reeling with such a case. He ordered standard procedures but was at a standstill until further results came back from the detailed autopsy.

He had had his best team on the case, but nothing was making sense and it was driving him mad. They had gone back and forth from the ME office to the Yard and back to the scene, trying to piece together the clues, but there was nothing to go on. That was, until a strange figure in a billowing black coat had pushed through the doors to his office floor and started spewing details that could only be known by the murderer.

Sherlock Holmes, he called himself, was obviously high, cocaine or heroin, more than likely. His eyes were slightly bloodshot, he had the starting of a cold sweat across his forehead and down his long neck, sallow skin and dark circles under his eyes. But it wasn't the same high Greg had seen before; he was erratic, but he wasn't babbling or incoherent. His teams had initially tried to remove him from the offices, but when Greg had heard what he thought were initial ramblings, the pieces were falling in place. It made sense. He delegated his team to follow up on what Sherlock was saying, confirming all the evidence that was pointed out. Sherlock spent some time behind bars while he sobered up and they verified that he was not a suspect. Meanwhile, Greg's team closed the case. After only a couple of hours, the guilty party was arrested, confession made, and Greg had decided that Sherlock was not a raving lunatic, despite his appearance and stubbornness on the scene that day.

There was something significantly different about Sherlock. He was highly intelligent and his skill with deduction was unlike anything that Greg had seen before. It was clear that his input on the case was not only unwelcomed by the team, judging by the belligerent scoffs and groans, but his presence was going to cause strife. It was going to be a long road if Greg decided that the pros outweighed the cons in utilizing this amateur detective later on. Especially one who was obviously a junkie.

While Greg typed, he heard a faint knock at the door to his new office. Before he could verbalize a reply, the door opened and a man breezed in, exuding an aura of superiority. He was dressed in a perfectly fitted light tan three-piece suit, a gold watch chain looped out of his waistcoat, and a lavender tie. A black doorman umbrella swung from his hand as he surveyed the room.

"Uh." Greg cleared his throat and halfway stood from his chair. Unsure of what to do, he decided on gesturing to the empty chair opposite his desk by extending his hand. 

"Mycroft Holmes," The man offered gracefully before Greg could form any words from his open mouth. Mycroft lowered himself into the chair, his long legs crossed in front and his thin pale fingers entwined in his lap. Greg knew that the chair was horrendous. It was uncomfortable at best, and a pain in the arse at worst. But this man was sitting in it as if it were a plush feather-filled throne and he were the Queen.

"And you work for…?" Greg had never seen this man before, he knew he didn't work at the Yard but judging by the patronising look on the man's face, he must have been of some influence.

"I hold a minor position in the British Government." Greg didn't believe that, but the smug smirk on the man's face told him not to question it. He would have to ask around later. "Detective Inspector, I'm sure you're aware of my little brother's… current affairs…" he trailed off, a slight upturn of his chin and raise of his eyebrows. _Ah, so the junkie has a posh brother in the government. How is that not surprising?_ Honestly though, it was all he needed to hear. If this guy thought he was going to come in here and take advantage of his new position of Inspector, he was barking up the wrong tree. Greg didn't get to this position by being walked on by superiors, let alone a relative of someone involved in a case.

"The drugs, you mean?" Mycroft gave a quick nod. "Yeah, I used to work with junkies, I know the signs. Are you saying that he's not in a state to solve this case? Because he looked more like he was coming off his high at the time I met him." Greg ventured apprehensively. He had already started the paperwork and it had all made sense after Sherlock explained his reasoning. Greg's team would never have figured it out, let alone in the 5 minutes it took the young raven-haired heroin addict that had been pacing between the officers' desks. If Greg could look the other way just this once, he may be able to use Sherlock later on with other cases.

"Not at all," started Mycroft, "He's always fit to solve any case that may come his way. I'm simply saying that given his aforementioned propensity for synthetic stimulants, you would be wise to omit him from your official report. That is, if you would like to keep your position here at New Scotland Yard." He ended with a smirk, but his eyes weren't in it. They looked sad, and Greg had a feeling that it concerned his brother's drug problem. "This will be the last time you let my brother's advice help you while he's under the influence of narcotics."

Lestrade sat back for a minute, putting his hand to his mouth and chin and pulling his feet up to rest on the corner of his desk. He furrowed his brow and studied the posh man opposite him. He held himself with authority, the posture of someone used to getting their way whenever needed. But he wasn't technically threatening him. His chin was still raised in defiance, and yes, his stormy grey eyes were staring at Greg, but the corners of his lips were starting to fall from their smirk. Greg may not be a brilliant man, but it was obvious that this gentleman cared about his younger sibling, and he had the means to follow through with any threat he did happen to make.

Greg gave a curt nod. "No. I'll leave him off the report this time considering the circumstances, but he'll be back. Whether I call him or he just shows up, he'll be back. And I'm not going to make him leave, so what are we going to do about the drugs?" He dropped his feet from the desk, leaned forward placing his elbows on the top and resting his chin on his entwined fingers.

"I beg your pardon?" Mycroft looked at him incredulously.

"The drugs, obviously we need to do something, 'cause I can't let 'em back in the station, let alone a crime scene in that state, as you stated. I got some real straight and narrow blokes on the force and they're bound to notice if he's at a scene, high off his arse," Greg replied, quite confident that a caring brother would agree. "And as I said, he will show up at a crime scene, I guarantee that. You know it too." He pointed at the man across from him.

"I…we?" Mycroft started, confusion twisting his elongated features. "I don't understand. You want to help with his recovery?"

"Well, yeah. He really helped out with that case. He's brilliant. I'd suggest he join the force, but I suspect he'd have a problem being around that many people who are less intelligent than he is. He didn't quite get on with the PCs here, in fact, he made sure they felt like right bloody gits." Greg reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, stretching it from side to side, making his dark grey shirt lift a little and revealing a lightly tanned hip and stomach with a dusting of a hair trail leading down beneath his blue denim jeans.

Mycroft eyes widened ever so slightly and he stifled a cough, "Yes, well, I have insisted he join MI5 or MI6 and not squander his talents with petty crime solving, but he has been adamant since he was young. Of course, he is a graduate chemist, so the allure of creating and subsequently experimenting with the effects of drugs was not lost to him either." He seemed wistful at first, lost in some distant memories, but he suddenly changed his expression to what Greg could only assume was skeptical and he cleared his throat. "If you want to continue to work with my brother, Detective Inspector, we will need to come to some sort of agreement; A system, if you don't mind."

"You tell me what I need to do and I'll do it, posh man! If he keeps helping with our hard cases, I'll do whatever I need to keep him on my side, and hopefully, I can add him in on the reports…"

Mycroft chuckled. "Detective Inspector-"

"Greg, please." He smiled at Mycroft. This was a game he could play.

"Gregory," Mycroft smiled. He seemed to chew on the word a bit. "My brother uses drugs to stimulate his mind. He believes himself to have control over his addiction, while I do not particularly agree with this assessment. He has, let's call them, 'trigger days'. I believe that if you truly want to work with him, you will need to incentivise him. Offer him cases, cold cases, to keep him on the course of sobriety, especially on these trigger days. This should keep him on the ' _straight and narrow_ ' as you call it.".

"A'ight. So, I just need to get him to agree to get clean if I start to include him in my cases?" Greg liked the thought of that. And this would probably mean he would see Mycroft more often.

"I think that should suffice, for now. My brother can be capricious at best, but like a petulant school boy, he responds well to tailored recompense." Mycroft clicked his tongue, uncrossed his legs and scanned the floor before standing up. He looked at Greg while leaning on his umbrella. "Thank you, Detective Inspector. This has been most…enlightening."

"Greg." He corrected again. Enlightening was one way to describe it. So was intriguing, stimulating, and a bit revealing.

"Gregory," he confirmed with a nod. Mycroft turned to leave but stopped in the doorway with a flourish of his umbrella in his hand. "I do hope your personal life won't be effected by this new relationship with Sherlock. He can require a lot of time, which can require certain…sacrifices in one's life. It's something I've spent my whole life doing. I've taken care of him, whether he admits it or not, and I wouldn't do anything different, given the chance. This may not end as you wish it to, but I think that you will find having Sherlock on your side is not something you will regret." He let that stand for a second and then he left without another word.

Greg let out the breath he wasn't aware he was even holding. That man was intense. He was like the edge of a thunderstorm; quiet and calm with an electricity that raised the hairs on his arms. It was exciting, being in that air, waiting for something to happen, even though he had no idea what it was that he was expecting. It lingered well after Mycroft left.

The DI snapped back with a jerk. _It wouldn't end how he wished it to? What does that mean? And those piercing grey eyes like two thunderstorms crackling before the rain?_ He shook his head. He hadn't had any type of attraction to a man for years. _Was this attraction? I mean, he did have really great eyes…_ It was a strange thing for him to say, because Greg wasn't even thinking of how he wanted it to end. He knew that Sherlock was an asset, and that he'd like to have him join his team, in whatever capacity that meant.

He didn't have time for this anyway, he had to finish up this paperwork for the case Sherlock had solved. _Hypothermia? In a sauna?_ He chuckled out loud. At least this would be the strangest case he'll ever see.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mycroft didn't have to wait long in the misty mid-afternoon rain for his unassuming chauffeured black sedan. He only had to check his pocket watch once before it pulled up to the kerb. As the long-time driver brought him back to his office at Whitehall, Mycroft sat back and sighed. He pursed his lips and thought about this man, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. The DI was fascinating. He didn't seem to be scared or abashed. In fact, he seemed a bit curious about Mycroft. He wasn't necessarily trying to intimidate the Inspector, but it was interesting. Perhaps the years of catching and interrogating criminals had hardened the man to being questioned by a consultant to the British Parliament, MI5, MI6, and the CIA, among others. But the real question was, _Why was this stranger willing to help a drug addict that he just met?_

Gregory Lestrade was a married, thirty-eight-year-old, newly placed Detective Inspector for New Scotland Yard. Mycroft had done a bit of homework on him. Well, Anthea did the homework, but Mycroft read it. The DI had been married to Cindy for eight years, no children, and they lived in a small, but beautiful flat in a nice part of the city. Cindy has been unfaithful for the last three years. Mycroft estimated, given all the information on him and meeting him in person, the marriage had about five years left.

Probabilities and outcomes were exactly why he had government agencies vying for his attention and favor. Mycroft had many talents including the typical Holmes power of deduction, a memory storage capacity double or even triple that of an average person, as well as excellent manipulation skills. But his most used talents in his profession were two: that of correctly calculating the outcome of events (while Sherlock tended to focus on how and why a particular event happened, Mycroft could work the opposite direction and create an outcome exactly to his specifications, even factoring in individual choices made by unknown parties), and his tendency to use this skill to gather debts. Knowing when you could own someone based on a debt and when you should cash in that particular debt is always helpful when dealing in politics.

Mycroft was also good at reading people. He could tell what drives them, what bothers them. With just a few well-placed questions and probing inquiries, he could make what normally were accurate assumptions about a person. He knew that Inspector Lestrade was a man of great integrity. He was led by his heart but he had a brain to back it up. He was a hero, in most respects. He wanted what was best for people, even people he didn't know and that was making him an excellent officer, and his intellect and drive made him an excellent authoritative figure. But his commitment to his career would ultimately be the end of his marriage.

Mycroft shook his head. _Why does the length of this man's marriage concern me at all?_ It shouldn't. It didn't. Caring was definitely not an advantage.

"Anthea, did the PM forward the details for this afternoon's meeting?" He asked curtly of the women quietly tapping away on the keyboard of her Blackberry sitting next to him.

"Yes, sir. I have sent you the email already," she said without looking up from her screen. Anthea was good at her job, amazing in fact. That's why she came so highly recommended six months back. Mycroft was still getting used to her efficient ways. His last assistant left much to be desired.

"Hmm." He nodded. "Good, and please start level two investigative security on Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. He will be working with Sherlock more often and I'd like to keep updated on his whereabouts and dealings. We need to know that we can trust him to do what's best for my brother."

"Who, sir?" She was efficient, and sometimes a little too observant.

"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade."

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**2017, S04E03, Outside Musgrave**

"Um…Mycroft. Make sure he's looked after. He's not as strong as he thinks he is," Sherlock called out to Greg. Sherlock had apparently saved the day again, or got himself into a whole mess of a situation as usual, but this time was a little different. Mycroft had been involved and people were dead. This wasn't technically within Greg's jurisdiction, but when he had heard the Holmes name, he made sure he was at least on scene.

Greg had already spoken to Mycroft on the phone and he had sounded mostly like himself. Irritated, exhausted, although a bit shaken up. But by all accounts, he was doing rather well. Greg also knew that Mycroft was a master of deception, always remaining calm and in control. If Sherlock thought that he shouldn't be alone, then it would be his top priority. He didn't know if Mycroft had anyone close in his life, but judging by the way Sherlock had always talked about him, he didn't think so. Greg had spent a considerable amount of time with Mycroft over the years discussing Sherlock, so he would say that he knew Mycroft fairly well. Well enough to be someone of seeming comfort, perhaps.

"Yeah, I'll take care of it." Greg nodded at Sherlock. He would do anything for Sherlock. It couldn't be any harder than looking after Sherlock while he was 'chasing the dragon'. He didn't know what he needed to do to look after Mycroft, but he would give it his all.

"Thanks, Greg." The words came out easily, as if Sherlock had always known his name. What Greg could not have fathomed at this time was what the three people had gone through. He knew the basics: crazy middle sister took charge of a highly secure facility and put them through trials of an unknown emotional and moral persuasion. The Holmes brothers were not unemotional robots, and it was even more clear after this.

Greg was stunned for a second and turned to look at Sherlock. There was no hint of insincerity. No hidden joke or imply of a suggestion. Just a deep and pure seriousness and concern for his brother. Greg looked to the new PC standing and awaiting orders as another officer loaded Eurus Holmes into the helicopter going to Sherrinford.

"Pete, the helicopter ready?" He asked. The PC nodded. "Let's move her then."

"Is that him, sir? Sherlock Holmes?" asked Pete, nodding towards Sherlock and John.

"A fan, are ya?" Greg asked. It wasn't unusual by now, John's blog was quite famous, even with staff at the Yard. Not to mention the articles in newsprint and the social media craze when Sherlock came back from the dead. Despite his want to stay private, Sherlock's business was far from it.

"Well, he's a great man, sir," The young PC said.

"No, he's better than that." Greg looked fondly at Sherlock and John. "He's a good one." It had taken years for Sherlock to come to terms with his real emotions, with his ability to connect with other people. After everything that Greg had been through with both Sherlock and now John Watson, it was clear what lay at Sherlock's heart, no matter how much he denied it and no matter how immature and ignorant he acted.

Greg gave a few orders to his Sergeants and tied up some loose ends on this scene. He looked around at the cars and lights for the Chief Superintendent. He saw him talking to another Detective Constable and he waited until they were done before he flagged him down.

"Sir, can you tell me if they've moved Mycroft Holmes yet?" Greg asked.

"I've gotten word that there's a helicopter on the way to pick him up," The Chief Superintendent offered.

"Do we have one of our own headed out there?" Greg asked, almost cutting him off with his urgency. "One without the Holmes girl in it, I mean."

"I'm sending another team for the hand-off to MI6. Why?"

"With all due respect, sir, I'd like to be on that helicopter with that team. I have some more work to do with the Garrideb brothers' death." Greg knew there wasn't much to do on that case, the guilty brother was dead and they knew who killed the other two brothers. But he needed to get there before Mycroft left. If Mycroft was whisked away before he could see him in person, Greg may not have another chance to see him and ensure he was well looked after.

"Very well. Lift off in 5."

Greg tried to calm his breathing before the helicopter arrived at Sherrinford. He never had a reason to take care of Mycroft before, Mycroft was always in charge and never needed a shoulder to lean on, that Greg knew of at least. But Sherlock had seemed so concerned. And what exactly was he supposed to do to make sure Mycroft was ok? How does one console a remarkable genius who pretends he has no emotions behind his piercing grey eyes. He imagined it was like trying to hug a ferocious wolf who was gaoled in an office building, snarling and leaping over fallen chairs. _And he was still thinking about his eyes? Oh, bullocks…_

As the helicopter landed on the helipad, Greg and the rest of the team jumped out and headed towards the imposing metal door for Sherrinford. The metal stairs under his feet echoed in the rock-walled staircase leading underground. Security teams were speaking with Yarders, SOCO was spread out around the entire floor, more people were reviewing the preliminary security footage from inside and outside the facility. No doubt this investigation will be a long one with MI6 and Mycroft leading it. But not tonight. Tonight, Mycroft will need to just take a step back.

They had Mycroft in one of the offices, a pot of tea on the conference table, and groups of facility staff herded into the surrounding rooms for questioning. Mycroft was sitting in a chair, bent over at the waist with his elbows on his knees and his hands pressed together as if in prayer, supporting his chin. His eyes were wide, staring at a spot on the ground about eight feet in front of him. His thin lips were pulled tight across his face and he was pale, more pale than normal. A dusting of freckles could be seen faintly over the bridge of his nose.

Greg studied his face and saw bags under Mycroft's eyes. He was sunken, hallow. In his despair, he looked like a traumatised child. Greg could see him as a child; the quiet, scared child that was different than the rest. Greg wished he had known him when he was a teenager; when he was still impressionable. _Maybe he wouldn't be so alone now._ He was probably just coming into his own in his teens, probably charismatic and charming. He probably had men and women alike wrapped around his thin fingers _._ Mycroft's face looked innocent: younger, rounder. His eyes looked larger; his nose smaller. It was as if this trauma took 30 years from the man, leaving him bare for all to see. Greg swallowed and walked towards him. He pulled a chair up in front of Mycroft and lowered his head to look him directly in the eyes.

"How ya holding up, mate?" He asked Mycroft quietly. Greg was used to Sherlock entering in his "mind palace" but he had never seen Mycroft do it. _Did Mycroft have a mind palace?_

"Detective Inspector." Mycroft acknowledged. He sat up slowly, taking a deep breath and letting it out audibly.

"Oh, is that where we're at right now? Listen, _Mr. Holmes_ , don't try to push me away by being distant." He said it softly, though it held a bite in the words. "I've known you for over 10 years. I've helped your brother through some real places. He asked me to look after you, so whether I'm doing it for him, or I'm doing it for you, I'm here as a friend. So I'll ask it again, how are you holding up?" Greg also sat back in his chair and eyed up the man. Mycroft lifted tired eyes to meet Greg's.

"I'm sorry, Gregory. This," Mycroft gestured around him, "is all too much for me right now. How is Sherlock?" He rubbed his hands over his face.

"He's fine. John is a little shaken up, but the paramedics cleared them both. Sherlock was more concerned about you."

Mycroft chuckled. "Oh, always the sentimental one, my dear brother." But his smile faded fast and the sorrow came back to his eyes.

Greg stood up and put his arms out as he reached Mycroft in the chair. Mycroft's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open to protest, but only a gasp of air came out as Greg put one arm around Mycroft's back and under his arm to lift him out of the chair.

"Come on, you need to get home to rest, Mycroft."

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mycroft let Greg lead him to the helicopter, his body braced against the DI, and he texted Anthea discreetly on the way. He arranged a car to pick them up when the helicopter landed and mentally calculated how long it would take to get there; the drive to his manor, the walk into the house to the library and the amount of good scotch left in the decanter. A glass of delicious scotch, a warm fire, and a quiet night alone. Maybe he would actually finish watching the film he had started when was rudely interrupted by Sherlock and Dr. Watson with their childish attempt to get information from him. Unfortunately, it had worked all too well. This day had not gone as expected. He didn't want to believe that there was a break in his security of Eurus, but obviously, he had been wrong. It was becoming too frequent recently.

Mycroft spent the rocky twenty minute flight gripping the seat, his long fingers curved over the seam in the smooth leather-like material. Greg kept a warm hand on Mycroft's lower back, steadying him, the other gripping a bar and holding them into the open compartment. He was grateful for the support, physical and emotional. He never really let anyone get close before, and Gregory was the closest he had to a friend.

When the helicopter landed, they climbed out and towards the waiting black sedan. The backseat was empty, exactly as Mycroft had requested. He didn't need his closest employee seeing him in this weak state and acting nearly an invalid, letting the DI lead him around. He also didn't need the sideways glance she would inevitably give him, knowing the subtle mood changes he always had before a meeting with Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Mycroft slid into the back seat with a sigh, dropping his head and closing his eyes. Greg slid in beside him and clasped his hands in his lap, fidgeting.

Mycroft felt Greg shifting in his seat. _He's nervous, he's trepidatious._ He looked sideways at the man next to him, trying not to be obvious. Greg still held his shoulders back in a noble attempt to be strong for Mycroft's sake. It was…endearing. Mycroft gently raised his hand and hovered for a moment before he placed it on Greg's bicep. The muscle rippled slightly under his hand, causing his breath to hitch.

"Thank you, Gregory. I… appreciate your concern." He felt a little ridiculous, being so transparent in his distress that this man, whom he would barely call a friend, would feel compelled to comfort him, even when he was in distress himself. This was a bit silly but after what he'd been through, maybe a bit of silly sentiment is what he needed, what he deserved. Maybe being alone isn't the best thing to be right now, and maybe it would ease some of Greg's fears as well. "Do you like scotch?" He asked and dropped his hand from Greg.

"Does the pope wear a funny hat?" Greg said quietly with a smirk. Mycroft smiled slightly at that and relaxed. Silly sentiment, indeed.

"Yes, yes, I suppose he does…"


	2. Noir Amour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg Lestrade struggles with how to take care of Mycroft Holmes. How does one comfort the "Ice Man"?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to post this early since it's International Fanworks Day! Enjoy!

**Mycroft's Manor**

Mycroft opened the front door, unveiling a vast entryway with views to the second floor. He gestured towards the coat rack so Greg took off his coat and scarf, hung them neatly on the little peg and then slipped off his shoes. After they were both finished, Mycroft led him to what looked to be the library. It was a mostly empty room except for the ungodly amount of books covering almost every inch of the rich burgundy walls which complimented the golden wood of the built-in bookcases. Mycroft left him to choose his own seat, while he himself approached a sideboard where he pulled out two short glasses and a crystal decanter. He gracefully pulled out his pocket watch before pouring the drinks and took a long look at it and sighed. Then, he pulled the clip from his waistcoat, placing the watch and chain on the sideboard with care.

Anthea, or someone else from Mycroft's staff must have come before they arrived to light the fireplace. It was burning bright and warm and Greg sat down on the settee in front of it, feeling the gentle warmth on his feet stretched out in front of him. He closed his eyes and let the day wash over him. Greg could feel Mycroft watching him, and he let the lines in his own face soften against the orange glow of the fire. He wondered how long it would take until the heat made his cheeks red; He wondered about the things he could do to make Mycroft's cheeks red. By the state of the place, he assumed Mycroft didn't have many visitors and he figured that he was the first in a long time. It was easy to feel at home here in this big house, despite the emptiness. Mycroft sauntered towards Greg on the settee and handed him one of the glasses he poured and then placed his on the side table next to a green velvet wingback chair.

"Oh," Greg gently moaned, taking a sip. "This is good scotch." Mycroft chuckled and Greg wondered if he had sounded too much like a pauper in front of a prince.

"It's not the best, just a twelve-year Chivas Regal. But it is my favorite sipper after a rough day." He shook off his jacket, hanging it on another nearby chair. It was beginning; the removal of the armor. He used deft fingers to carefully unbutton his waistcoat, folded it length-wise with care and draped that over the chair as well, smoothing the fabric into place. He pulled off the tie pin and then reached for the Windsor knot and eased it back and forth to loosen it before untying it altogether, pulling it away from his long neck and placing it on top of his waistcoat. Lastly, he opened his shirt sleeves and gently rolled each one up to his elbows. It was like a choreographed dance of one, his body in tune with the steps from daily practice.

John often talked about Sherlock's armor, though he rarely wore his clothes as armor, he tended to cover himself with an intense glare and defend himself with a sharp wit of deductions. Mycroft had a much cooler head, and appearances were everything in his profession, so the posh layers of clothes were his protection. It was a rare sight, he was sure, seeing this with the Holmes brothers. Every time Greg had to "rescue" Sherlock from himself during his heavy drug period, he would meet with Mycroft and discuss it. No matter how intense the recovery had been, Mycroft never had a crack in his armor. Never had he looked like he did right now.

He looked so vulnerable, sitting in the chair, bent at the waist again, both hands clutching his glass of scotch between his knees. Greg hadn't even seen him take a sip yet. He was staring into the fire, the light bouncing in his eyes which were now a bit glassy. Greg fought the urge to reach out and touch him.

 _Banana. That's the hint of flavor I'm tasting in the scotch. A lingering of black pepper and allspice._ "Mmm." The involuntary noise gathered in his throat. "Sorry." Greg followed up the noise with a clearing of his throat and blushed a bit. The scene snapped Mycroft from his thoughts and he raised an eyebrow at him.

"Don't apologize for liking it, I'll send your compliments to the Master Blender. He is an old acquaintance of mine." Greg shook his head and chuckled at that. _Of course he is._ The Holmes brothers tended to know a lot of people and always kept them close at hand in case they needed them later.

Mycroft's smile faded again and he stood up to pace in front of the fireplace. Greg's heart clenched at the sight. He wanted to stand up and hold him still, soothe away his stress.

"Mycroft, what can I do to help? Do you want to talk about what happened? Sherlock didn't actually give a full account for me." Mycroft stopped pacing and tilted his head to look at Greg.

"Would you…indulge me?" Mycroft inquired. His lips were turned into a slight smile, but this eyes remained passive.

"Uh, yeah, sure. What's up?" Whatever he asked, it couldn't be that bad. Maybe he wanted to play a game, sing karaoke, dance naked in the street. _Wouldn't that be the day?_ It didn't really matter what he requested, Greg would have agreed to acts of petty vandalism at this point to help Mycroft.

"Do you like vintage films?" 

Greg let out the breath he had been holding and laughed. "That's it? Yes, yes I do." Watching a movie was an easy task compared to taking a cricket bat to garden gates.

Mycroft led Greg up the grand staircase and into a separate room with a large screen on one wall and a projector on the opposite side.

"Wow, this is oddly..odd. How many rooms does this house have?" Greg inquired, mouth agape as he looked around the hallway and back into the room, trying to figure it out on his own.

"Twenty or so in total. Eight bedrooms, four bathrooms, the library, the office, the kitchen, the dining room, the mudroom, a couple of sitting rooms, and this lovely cinema room. Technically, it was an office, but I commandeered it for my films." Mycroft's smile was devilish. Greg could imagine his elegant pianist fingers twisting a long skinny auburn moustache like a cartoon villain.

"So," Mycroft continued. "Do you have a preference?" He opened a cabinet full of 8mm films ranging from A Trip to the Moon to Psycho. Greg had no idea anyone still had 8mm film, let alone a library of them.

"Nosferatu?" Greg suggested, scanning the titles.

"Not tonight," Mycroft smiled gently and shook his head. "Too soon, though I applaud your sense of humor, Gregory." There was a pause while he contemplated exactly what to say. "I…my sister is not stable. There were too many times in one day that I thought I was not coming home. Too many times where I looked death in the face. I think it will be awhile before I can allow myself to watch a movie where one fights demons, real or imaginary."

"Oh. I'm sorry, Mycroft. I can't imagine you do that sort of thing often. I mean, Sherlock and John, they've fought some crazy blokes before, but I guess you're not really doing that on the daily." Greg felt like an idiot. How could one glass of scotch make him forget that Mycroft had been through hell today? Granted, it was good scotch. Plus, the firelight, the exposed freckles on Mycroft's collarbone. Nah, he'd give himself a break this once. He was distracted. Mycroft didn't seem to take any offense to his social blunder.

"You know that I didn't always work in an office? I did field work at the beginning of my career, working with the secret service. I even did some contract work with the CIA for a stint, but my talents were recognized as something best suited for more… background duties. I do detest legwork." He smiled fondly. "Why don't we watch _It Happened One Night_? I'm a big Clark Gable fan."

Before Greg could protest, if he was even going to, Mycroft pulled the box out and brought it to the projector. Greg followed him to watch. It's not everyday someone sets up an 8mm film. He watched him loop the film around the reel and noticed beside the projector was another box.

"What's this then?" Greg asked, picking up the box to read the title.

"Oh! Nothing, it's just another old film." Mycroft quickly snatched it out of Greg's hands before he could read anything, but the cover looked newer, like it was made to look vintage but was indeed modern. It featured a scantily clad 1940's styled woman, and a man in what looked to be a Noir film. It looked to be something resembling Double Indemnity. Mycroft turned a deep shade of red, his freckles disappearing into the blush with each passing second.

"Mycroft, is that Noir style porn?!" Greg could hardly contain his shock _and maybe a bit of excitement_. Mycroft's mouth was open, ready to retort, but how could he deny what was so glaringly obvious?

Mycroft dropped his arms to his side and raised his head a bit before answering. He cleared his throat and brushed his free hand through his hair. "Yes, well. I may not always have a need for companionship, but I'm not dead either." It was not a defense, it was not a plead to believe him. It was a simple statement of fact.

Greg smiled and let out a deep sigh. _What I am doing here?_ He honestly didn't know at this point. It was just strange, this new side of Mycroft. This emotionally charged, devastated shell of a man who is finally showing these…human sides to him. Was he here to see that? Here to comfort the historically most unflappable man he had ever met?

"Are you hungry?" He suddenly asked the poised younger man. He needed to escape the room for a bit, gather himself. Mycroft looked taken aback, as if he had expected the Detective Inspector to walk out then and there, leave him to his filthy habit and dark thoughts. Greg squared up his shoulders and rocked his hips forward.

"Uh, it might…be a bit late…for takeaway." He stammered. This was something that Greg could do for him, something he knew might make him feel better. When Greg was young and out of sorts, eating a home-cooked meal always made him feel better. His mother taught him that nourishing the soul with delicious food was the first step in healing. Most of what Greg had eaten while around Mycroft was automat snacks at the hospital during instances of Sherlock's episodes.

"Point me in the direction of the kitchen. I'm going to cook for you. You get the film queued up and I'll be back with something. Fill my glass for me, yeah?" Greg passed him his now empty glass from the table.

"Um, yes, down the stairs and to the left." Mycroft grabbed the glass and gestured with the suggestive film in his hand towards the staircase outside the door.

Greg made his way towards the kitchen. It had obviously been remodeled since the house was built, with stainless steel appliances and a beautiful marble countertop. Grey glass tiles lined the backsplash and pendant lights hung over the workplace to illuminate with an ethereal glow. He set to work looking through the cupboards to find the supplies he needed and tried to come up with a meal based on the food available. He decided on a simple pasta dish with fresh tomatoes, basil from a plant on the counter, and he would finish off the sauce with a splash of red wine.

He needed to decide what he was doing here. Was it simply to fulfill a wish made by a friend? Was he just making sure that Mycroft will be ok tonight and then they go their separate ways? Or was it more than that? Was he being a little selfish and taking advantage of the trauma that happened, hoping for an "in" with this beautiful statuesque man? _Did he really just think that? Statuesque? Oh man, yeah. He has a "thing" for Mycroft Holmes._ But there was no way in knowing if Mycroft felt the same way. He had never heard or seen Mycroft with anyone in a romantic fashion. In fact, this whole "noir porn" thing was the first time he had ever seen any reference to something sexual when it came to Mycroft. And he was pretty sure that was not a gay porn. _It did have a woman on the cover._ As if that actually means anything. He might as well put himself out there. This was probably going to be his only chance. He was finally unencumbered and with the lack of anyone else running to Mycroft's side to comfort him now, he was sure Mycroft was as well.

He would have to make the first move, especially after what had just happened. Maybe someone like Mycroft would appreciate someone who took charge and was a bit demanding. Or maybe he liked to be the demanding one himself. Greg had no idea. Yes, over the years there had been plenty of sideways glances, maybe a bit of lingering touches, but nothing that couldn't be explained away as standard friendship. You'd have to really read into it, feel the vibe yourself in the room. And he had. He'd been there and he had hoped there was something between them and maybe now he was reading into it too much. He was doing a shit job of ramping himself up for this. No, there was something there, he was sure of it. And if there wasn't, and he was wrong, he'd suffer the consequences.

When the food was done, he placed the plates and cutlery on a tray and made his way back to the theatre-style room.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The moment Gregory left the room, Mycroft sank down into the chaise next to him. _What is happening?_ He had never opened up like this to someone before. _The man saw his PORN for God's sake!_ He tried to shake it, but the damage was done. He needed to gain back control. He needed to collect himself and at least put his armored stare back on. Yes, he was attracted to Gregory. Yes, attraction was not new to him and he had had a few sexual partners in his life, but he did not crave companionship like Sherlock did.

Mycroft preferred the quiet solitude of inner reflection instead of talking about his feelings and commiserating with people who were less intelligent. He was careful not to show his dislike to other people, it made for complicated dealings when he may need to extract favors later down the line. With Gregory, he had never felt the dislike, even though he was obviously not on the intellectual level as the Holmes brothers. Gregory was clever, but more importantly, he was honest, genuine, and carefree; he didn't usually let things bother him. Mycroft didn't need to lie to him as often as he did with other people, but he also didn't have to explain himself or situations much either. Gregory trusted Mycroft, probably because he knew how much Mycroft cared for Sherlock and that was what they normally discussed.

He looked at the film he had chosen to watch with Gregory. _A romance. Of course._ He reached into the cabinet and pulled another, _The Big Sleep_ , a Bogart noir film. Maybe a detective mystery would be better for this situation?

His attraction to Gregory most definitely stemmed from these qualities _. And probably because of his muscular arms, light stubble on his chin, chocolate brown eyes, and his…damnit all!_ Mycroft shook his head and chuckled. _Oh dear._ He finished his drink and pulled out another decanter, an Irish whiskey this time. He refilled both glasses and reached for a case of cigarettes on a side table, pulling one out and lighting it.

 _Gregory was mostly a straight man, he would probably feel uncomfortable watching a romance movie in a dark room late at night, whiskey in hand, with a gay man on a chaise next to him._ He pulled a long drag before Greg came back into the room carrying a tray with plates.

"I hope you like Bacon Sarnies!" Greg smiled and sat the tray down on a coffee table in front of Mycroft. "I'm joking, of course!" He replied to Mycroft's questioning face. Gregory had an odd sense of humor, but at least he tried. "Pasta, hope you like simple cooking."

"This looks marvelous, Gregory, thank you." And it did look marvelous. It smelled amazing too. Mycroft smashed his cigarette into the tray on the small side table and waved the smoke away from the food. He tried to keep his demeanor cool, but he realized he was starving. He hadn't eaten anything since that morning before arriving at Baker Street, before the explosion. He dug in while Greg sat down on the chaise next to him, so close that their thighs touched. It was strangely comforting, the warmth of him. Greg smiled and picked up his plate to eat as well.

When they were finished, Greg gathered the used plates and cutlery and put them back on the tray, moving it to a sideboard.

Mycroft picked up the two films. A romance and a mystery. He had already been shocked a few times by the Detective Inspector tonight, why not see if he can be again. "Your choice," he offered the covers to Greg.

"Oh, I like noirs," he said with a wink and Mycroft blushed. "But, I like your original choice for tonight. Unless of course, you want to put your _other noir_ on.." Again, an odd sense of humor, but it was growing on him. Mycroft smiled and shook his head.

"It Happened One Night." Mycroft said, though it was so quiet it was almost a whisper.

"Hmm?" Greg inquired. Mycroft finished spooling the film on the reel and started it up. He turned out the light and sat back down on the chaise. "Oh, nothing," he replied. If Greg only understood the implication.

Greg smiled and sat back against the head of the chaise, pulling his legs up behind Mycroft. Before Mycroft could shift to make room for him, Greg reached over with both arms and wrapped them around Mycroft's torso, pulling him in between his legs to recline on Greg's chest.

"Gregory!" Mycroft yelped, but he didn't physically fight it. The warmth felt good, despite it being against his nature to be so physically close to someone in such a setting. Being in Greg's arms didn't feel 'normal' but it didn't feel wrong. Greg hushed him quietly and his muscles relaxed into the hug that Greg was giving him. Something opened within Mycroft as the film began. His scowl relaxed and he blinked against wet lashes, resting his head on Greg's shoulder. _If this is what one could feel from physical 'comfort' from another person, maybe it isn't such a bad thing from time to time._ He closed his eyes and let sleep take him.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Greg awoke slowly, opening one eye and then the other. Mycroft was still fast asleep on his chest, a gentle snore coming from his slightly agape mouth. His legs were pulled up to his body like a newborn fawn and his arms were covering Greg's, folded across his chest. Greg's legs were on either side of Mycroft's tucked body.

This was something Greg could see doing everyday. Waking up with this "Ice Man", thawed and soft in his arms. He slowly extracted a hand from under Mycroft's hold and brushed it through his auburn hair. It was soft and he could smell the faint tea tree and spruce scent of his shampoo as he stroked it.

Mycroft's mouth closed and he shifted just a bit, but it was enough to make his foggy brain aware that he was not in bed and he was not alone. He opened his eyes abruptly and started to jump up.

"Shh, it's alright. It's just me. You're safe, Mycroft." Greg's heart was racing. He didn't know what to expect in the morning, if Mycroft would regret letting him hold him as he fell asleep. He hoped that it wouldn't cause him to close off, but he knew it was a possibility. Mycroft Holmes was a private person and the fact that he was even here in this room with him was a miracle. He kept his hand on Mycroft's chest, flexing his fingers and trying to soothe him into staying.

"I…I'm sorry. I didn't mean to keep you here so long. You must have prior engagements to attend to." Greg followed as Mycroft gently pushed through his hold, threw his feet over the side of the chaise and stood up. Mycroft tried to straighten his clothes which were irreversibly wrinkled now from the nap in the Greg's arms.

"Mycroft, my schedule's clear for the day. It's only…" he looked at his watch, "half four. Uh, where's your bedroom?" Greg stood and turned off the projector. He walked toward to the door and opened it, letting the hallway light spill into the small room with the tall ceiling. "Come on." He insisted as Mycroft remained standing in front of the chaise.

Mycroft acquiesced and led him down the hall to a lavish bedroom. There was a king sized four-poster wooden bed in the center wall, flanked by ornate wooden side tables. Greg walked him to the bed and pulled back the silk bedclothes.

"Gregory, I'm fine. You really don't have to stay-" Mycroft whispered. But his eyes said the opposite, Greg could feel the energy drained from him. He didn't want to fight with him, but he'd seen enough distraught people to know what most people needed in a time like this. He just hoped that lumping Mycroft into that same group wasn't going to be a mistake.

"Do you want me to leave? Because honestly, I'd rather stay and make sure you're alright. If you don't mind, and I get the feeling that you'd prefer it too. I can go sleep in a guest room if that makes you more comfortable. Think it over, I need to use the loo." Greg turned and walked into the en suite and shut the door.

He looked at himself in the mirror and rubbed his hand over his face. He was starting to look like an old man. What could he really offer Mycroft besides a hot meal and a maybe a good old fashion snog? Greg didn't think a respectable man like Mycroft would be interested in a tired old copper. He finished his business and washed his hands, checking the mirror one last time. He ruffled his hair a bit before nodding and opening the door. Walking back into the bedroom, he noticed Mycroft had changed into pyjamas with another set sitting on the end of the bed. Normally, he'd just get down to his pants for bed, if even that. He'd rather be starkers than get twisted up in some outfit while asleep, but he didn't want to tell Mycroft that. They stared at each other for a minute before Mycroft gestured towards the clothes.

"If you would like to change into something more comfortable." Greg couldn't help but laugh. Mycroft sounded like a clichéd sex scene from a movie. He started with a chuckle, which quickly turned into a full belly laugh. Mycroft looked at him with complete confusion and Greg wasn't going to try to explain it to him. But laughing is infectious, and Mycroft joined in without another word. Greg wiped a tear from his eye before he was finally able to choke out some words.

"Yeah," Greg finally managed to say, "Let me just go slip in to something...a little more comfortable…" He grabbed the clothes and headed back to the en suite, changed and then came back in. He dumped his clothes in a pile on the floor next to en suite door and looked around awkwardly. Mycroft was laying in bed, his back propped up to the headboard, the blanket still pulled down by his feet.

"Do you want to point me in the direction of a guest room then?" Greg offered. He still didn't quite know where he stood in all of this. He didn't want to impose, but he also didn't want to miss an opportunity.

"No, Gregory. I find... I rather liked sleeping in your arms. And if you'd permit me to do so again, I would be most grateful." It was mostly a whisper, obviously a difficult admission. And something that Greg did not want to give him time to regret.

"Of course, yeah, right." Greg scrambled to get to the other side of the bed. He climbed in under the blanket, lying on his side and raised his arm to allow the taller man to pull into the space he created. Greg reached down to pull the bedclothes up around them, then settled his arms around Mycroft and laid his head down so his lips were in Mycroft's hair. _This is unexpected._ Not that Greg minded one bit, in fact, this is what he'd thought about for a long time. _Well, maybe more than this, but that can wait._


	3. Diplomacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft deals with the aftermath of being vulnerable in front of Greg. John and Sherlock need some help from Greg as well.
> 
> "His mind became suddenly and inexplicably blank. His heart stopped for the briefest of seconds while his brain came back online, grasping his well-trained British sensibilities.  
> "Ah, would you care for some tea?""

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to our regularly scheduled posting time. I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

**Mycroft's Manor**

It was almost half nine when Mycroft woke again. The sunlight was coming through the opaque curtains on the floor to ceiling windows, bathing the room in a warm pale glow. Greg's arms were around him, one leg draped over his thigh and his face was pressed against the back of Mycroft's neck. _This is unexpected._ But maybe not, since he did invite Gregory to join him. He didn't think he needed this closeness, let alone wanted it. The unexpected part was that he liked it, that he had a taste of it and he could already tell it was going to be as addicting as the illicit drugs that his brother was so prone to. This was the dangerous part. The craving, the needing, the relying upon another person to make you happy.

Mycroft had spent his entire life avoiding this type of connection with people outside of his family. Even within his family, he was never one for physical contact or talking about emotions. Sherlock was the only person with whom he had such a close relationship with and even that was not what most people would call normal. He rarely discussed matters of the heart with Sherlock, though Sherlock was more inclined to do so, even if it was through their non-verbal language. Mycroft was "The Iceman" after all and he earned that nickname from Moriarty the same way that Sherlock earned his: it was true. But Mycroft was the only one to know why it was true, and to what depth. Everything is about appearances. The way you are treated professionally is based on how weak you appear, how clever you seem, and how far you are willing to go to get the job done. Mycroft was willing to do almost anything, for crown and country. And Mycroft was clever, very clever. And if he appeared weak, it was only when he needed to appear weak. Until he was away from that world and locked away behind doors where he knew no one would see him. Especially after yesterday with Eurus. His sister was a weakness that Mycroft had thought he had successfully hidden. But it was a weight off his shoulders that Sherlock finally remembered. His remaining anxiety about it was that soon he would have to tell his mother and father.

As he lay engulfed in the sleeping DI's arms, his mind was surprisingly calm, compared to most times where he was processing the next steps. Mycroft normally spent a good amount of time each day for quiet reflection. He sat at the Diogenes club in his private room, silent and contemplative, thinking about his next steps, or someone else's. His mind was constantly moving; he just preferred to do his thinking in selected phases, saving each phase for the appropriate time. This was how he made sense of all of the information he gathered everyday. Unlike Sherlock who took in all the information and connected the dots quickly, Mycroft liked to compartmentalise his information and go one route at a time, envisioning the different outcomes of scenarios. When he needed certain information, he accessed it in his mind palace and then locked it back up when done, so it wouldn't cloud his daily thoughts. But even thinking about having to break the news to his parents that their only daughter was not dead but in fact being held in a high security facility, he was surprisingly calm. _The result of increased Oxytocin._ He mused at the nature of the human body.

"Good morning, Mycroft." Mycroft's thoughts were interrupted by a kiss planted to the back of his neck. He felt as if he had been punched in the gut, breathless in an instant. Even with the soft breaths of air on his neck coming from Greg's sleepy lips, he had almost forgot that there was a conscious human next to him, and not a warm white noise machine.

"Good. Good morning." He whispered. His mind became suddenly and inexplicably blank. His heart stopped for the briefest of seconds while his brain came back online, grasping his well-trained British sensibilities. Greg had seen him at his most vulnerable, saw him close to tears, held him through the night. It was disorienting. "Ah, would you care for some tea?" Mycroft started to get up from the bed, but Greg held fast around his chest.

"Not yet. You're warm and I'm comfortable. Are you comfortable? Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, Gregory. I slept very well indeed." Mycroft's heart was pounding in his ears. He didn't have a lot of fight left in him, still exhausted from the day before. Jumping from the grenade in 221B, breaking into Sherrinford, and then the harrowing night with Eurus. He closed his eyes and settled his hips into Greg. Greg responded by pressing his lips to Mycroft's neck again, then moved them down to the crook of his neck and shoulder and placed another. "Gregory?" Mycroft implored. He turned in Greg's arms to face him, unsure of this next step and if Greg had thoroughly thought this through. Greg's facial features were softened and a light stubble had appeared over his jawline. The faint light of the windows haloed his head like an ethereal being. His eyes were intense, but half-lidded and he craned his head forward to reach Mycroft, leaving barely an inch between them. Mycroft could feel his hot breath on his lips.

_This will change things irreversibly. There is no coming back from this._ If his heart were to open completely, he would never be able to close it again. He already knew how this would end, he had seen it ten years ago. He knew immediately what _could_ happen given the right circumstances in his life and Greg's life, but he didn't know if the right circumstances would come along at the right time. Knowing what could happen and what _should_ happen were different. He could end this now, pull back, get out of the bed and carry on with his life, pretend like this never happened, since really, nothing has.

_Yet._ Yet.

Mycroft closed the gap between them, pressing not only his lips, but his chest, groin and legs into Greg, feeling the thin fabric between them. He reached up to run his fingers through Greg's hair, soft and silver in the muted sunlight. Greg groaned and deepened the kiss, turning his head to allow Mycroft's hands more access. His hands were still around Mycroft, alternating between flexing into his back, pulling him closer, and drawing delicate lines of graffiti with his fingertips. After a minute, Greg abruptly pulled back.

"Fuck, Mycroft…" His brows were furrowed and his cheeks were flushed. "I've wanted you for ten years." He took a deep, unsteady breath. "You are gorgeous. Do you know that?" He said it intensely, the same way he had kissed him. If he hadn't had his arms around Mycroft, he would have been shaking him by the shoulders, making sure the words sunk deep in to his brain. The feeling was too intense for Mycroft. He was finding himself increasingly losing track of his thoughts.

A smile crossed his lips. "I...you." The words wouldn't form in his mouth so instead, Mycroft stroked his long fingers over Greg's jaw, scratching at the hairs just pushing out from the skin, the roughness abrading his fingertips until he could feel Greg in his bones. Mycroft's eyes moved from Greg's eyes to his lips, slightly swollen and red. How could he describe the feeling of having someone seep so quickly into his body, his soul. He couldn't put to words his joy, apprehension, nervousness, arousal, fear.

Greg suddenly seemed emboldened by his own confession. "Join me in the shower? We went to sleep without washing that barmy day off and I'm feelin' it now," Greg asked, smiling and stretching his arms out away from Mycroft. He rolled away and threw his feet off the bed in one quick motion, before Mycroft could accept or refuse. Mycroft watched him head to the en suite, his sculpted shoulder blades and back pressing against the vest, the pyjama bottoms clinging to his muscular thighs and buttocks. Mycroft felt the loss of his weight next to him in the bed, a heavy lightness that felt instantly cold. He rolled to his back and took a deep breath. _Breathe. Just breathe._ He looked around the side table for his mobile. The table was empty besides Gregory's wristwatch; he must have left it in his jacket pocket. _Weakness._ But he immediately pushed the thought away, he had already stepped through that door, it was too late now.

Mycroft stood up and slipped on his house shoes and dressing gown from the walk-in wardrobe while he heard the shower turn on. He walked to the door and looked inside. Greg was standing outside the shower, his cotton vest lying on the floor and his fingertips in the stream of water, waiting for the correct temperature.

"Uh, I need to grab my mobile. My staff is aware, of course, what happened yesterday but I need to push some meetings today." Greg smiled at that. Mycroft wasn't pushing his meetings because of Gregory being there, but he wasn't _not_ pushing the meeting because he was there. He nodded at Mycroft.

Mycroft headed down the staircase, his house shoes softly clapping on the wood and his dressing gown gently catching on the railing. His heart was pounding against his ribs with his footsteps in tandem. He reached the coat rack and pulled his mobile from his jacket pocket. Ten missed calls, three texts and two emails. _This better be important._

"10 Missed Calls

Anthea"

"Text from Anthea:

I'm sorry, sir but the PM

needs to speak with you immediately"

"Text from Anthea:

PM threatened by Syrian official"

"Text from Anthea:

Sir, she will only speak with you"

Mycroft pursed his lips. If the PM wasn't so dependent on him, he'd tell that insufferable woman where she can stuff it. Although, it was always nice to feel important and this is technically what he gets paid to do. Solving problems, preventing wars, and dealing with helpless officials, among other things. He texted Anthea a confirmation while he walked back up the stairs and padded back into the bedroom. He stepped tentatively into the en suite. It was filled with steam and he could hardly see the figure behind the glass shower door, but it was enough to know that Greg was mid-wash, one arm in the air while he scrubbed his armpit with a flannel in the opposite hand.

"Heaven help me" he whispered, mostly to himself. Greg turned as Mycroft let out an audible whine.

"You coming in? The water is fantastic." His smile was devilish, but his eyes angelic and genuine. _I could call now, resign_. _Tell them all off, spend the rest of the morning in this shower until the water grows cold and my body water-wrinkled, discovering every inch of skin of this tanned god under my fingers, my tongue. Make him whimper and beg, make him gasp._ He mustered a smile that didn't spread to eyes, glanced down and sighed.

"Rather unfortunately, Gregory, I have been called away on a diplomatic emergency of sorts. I'm afraid the British Government is quite inept at dealing with Middle Eastern verbal intimidation. I will have to take a rain cheque, which I intend…" He trailed off, watching as the steam dissipated and revealed the whole of Greg's naked body, the water falling off the curves of his shoulders and hips. The water-matted hair on his chest led down his soft belly and continued to his groin and Mycroft's eyes landed on his half-erect cock. _Good God…_ "This…pains me, Gregory, you have no idea." Mycroft carefully positioned his hands in front of his own growing erection. He cleared his throat. "Please, help yourself to some clean clothes in the wardrobe off the bedroom. I apologise for…… but this cannot wait. I will contact you later. I think I'd like to take you somewhere, somewhere to thank you for last night."

Greg turned the shower off and stepped out, reaching for a towel on the wall. He brushed it over his hair and then quickly skimmed his body before wrapping it around his waist. Mycroft moved to step back and give him space, but Greg grabbed him around the waist and pulled him in for a deep kiss, his tongue gently probing Mycroft's lips and teasing him. Mycroft groaned, his body belying his calm and emotionless work persona. Greg pulled back as quickly as he had leaned in but before he stepped away, he dropped his hand to Mycroft's bottom and grabbed a handful, making Mycroft yelp.

"It's not a problem, love. My job keeps me on my toes as well and I wouldn't dream of standing in the way of the _Mighty British Government._ " He winked and walked out of the en suite.

"Mm" Mycroft muttered with a disappointed frown. He took a second to catch his breath, gathered himself and followed Greg out to the walk-in wardrobe. Searching through a few drawers, he found some clean clothes and handed them over: a pair of dark denim jeans and a plain black cotton shirt.

Greg raised his eyebrow at him. "I can't imagine you wearing something like this. I think I've only ever seen you in those three-piece bespoke suits before."

"Yes, well, 'needs must', I suppose. My job requires me to have a certain level of personal attention, as it were, but that doesn't mean that I am not occasionally in need of something on the casual side." Mycroft smirked and Greg gave out a little _humph._ As Greg dropped his towel to get dressed, Mycroft turned his back and proceeded to pick out some clothes for himself from the hangers. He couldn't afford to get distracted again if he was needed at work.

After he was dressed, Mycroft texted his driver to pull the car around and he made the bed. Greg had already gone downstairs to make some tea. Mycroft pulled the bedclothes up over the pillows and then on a second thought, he pulled them back down, picked up the pillow that Greg had used and brought it to his face, inhaling deeply. He could smell the spicy aftershave he had used the previous morning, the salt of his sweat from the day and the singular smell of his person. He put it back on the bed and finished tucking in the blanket. Greg had already poured the tea and a cup of Earl Grey was waiting for him when Mycroft reached the kitchen.

"Thank you, Gregory. For yesterday as well. You have always been indispensable to Sherlock and then Dr. Watson, but I see now exactly why. You have quite a calming effect on the mind, though I regret not being able to experience the full effect you have on the body." He wriggled his eyebrows and took a long pull from the cup.

Greg's mouth opened a little but his eyes crinkled and his lips turned up into a smile. "Gorgeous, you don't know the half of it." He set his cup down on the counter and walked up to Mycroft who was leaning up against the center island. He reached behind Mycroft's back, bracing against the worktop and gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek. "Hopefully, you have time for that shower. You need it." Mycroft's eyebrows raised with a jolt and his mouth flew open.

"Gregory, are you implying that I have a smell emanating from me or are you simply _taking the piss_ , as it were?" He smiled, pursing his lips and raising his chin.

" _Taking the piss_ , eh? Those are some pretty grotty words coming from a posh man like you." He turned and headed towards the front door. "Call me when you got s'm free time, love. I'm looking forward to it." And he headed out the front door, coat in hand.

Mycroft felt more naked than he ever had in his whole life, standing in his kitchen in the bright morning light wearing a full three-piece suit. His cheeks were flushed and his shoulders slumped forward the second the front door closed.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**221B Baker St**

Greg put his back against the front door of the manor the second the door was closed. _Holy crap._ Greg was out of breath. He hoped he didn't look as nervous as he actually was. He pulled the collar of his shirt out and smelled the inside, _like a stalker._ That same tea tree and spruce smell of Mycroft's shampoo. It was amazing; rich, earthy and spicy. The same way he would describe the man himself.

Greg was a confident man, at least he had been until the Holmes brothers had entered his life and made him self-conscious. Not only did they tend to know every detail of everyone's personal lives, but they had no problem articulating their disgust for those details and basic human emotions.

It had taken nearly ten years for him to see all the intricacies that encapsulated the Holmes brothers. Sherlock was obviously emotional; he reacted spontaneously, disregarding whomever was around. Mycroft wasn't as emotional, he was calculating; preferring to think everything through before making his next move. Last night was the only time he had ever seen Mycroft not regain his composure which left Greg in the rare position of most confident man in the room.

*DING*

Greg reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his mobile.

"Text from Number Withheld:

Come to Baker Street NOW

SH"

"Oh bugger" He sighed and found the nearest tube terminal.

When he arrived outside 221B Baker Street, he was reminded of the grenade that had exploded only the morning before. The windows were blown out, debris was strewn across the pavement with a thick coating of black soot and blue and white tape around the cement bollards blocked off most of the area. Greg himself had been quick to the scene although he had another team investigating, but only Mrs. Hudson had been on the kerb when he arrived. Apparently, John and the Holmes brothers were already out and gone. He had been upset at the time, not being told what was going on. It's not like he was a stranger to the odd ways of Sherlock Holmes. He could have helped. _What could be the problem now? Another explosive?_

Greg cautiously entered the front door and walked up the steps to the flat. The door was ajar and halfway up he could hear John, Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson talking, as well as some bustling about. Nothing serious then. He peeked his head around the corner as he entered the doorway. The place was a mess, but not nearly what it could have been. Most everything was knocked from the walls, the wallpaper blackened and destroyed. The floor was grimey, covered in debris and wet charred bits of papers, ceramic tea cups, linens and things.

"What seems to be the problem then?" Greg asked, hands in his pockets as he rocked on his heels.

" _What seems to be the problem, Graham?"_ Sherlock replied, dripping with sarcasm. "Obviously we require your assistance here." Sherlock waved his arms around the destroyed room. Greg looked to John who shrugged his shoulders at Sherlock's sudden and aggressive heedlessness in remembering Greg's name.

"Thank you for coming, Greg. If you don't mind lending a hand. Fancy a cuppa?" John gestured towards Mrs. Hudson who was daintily picking up a half-charred sheet of music off the mostly damaged Davenport.

"Cheers, and no worries, mate. I've got a day off with nothing planned." He nodded at the landlady. Mrs. Hudson had dropped the sheet of music and tip-toed to the doorway.

"Just this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper!" She called, prancing down the stairs to her own flat to fetch the tea tray.

"What's the plan then?" Greg asked. Sherlock had stopped moving, instead he was standing by one of the blown out windows, hands clasped together and steepled under his chin, glancing at the passersby on the street. _John must have a glazier on standby with how often they have window issues..._ John had one hand on his hip, the other he had up to his mouth, chewing on his fingertip lightly. "Maybe something stronger than tea?" Greg suppressed a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. John took the hand he was chewing and brought it to the back of his neck, rubbing the muscles hard and his lips pulled back into a rather large smile, despite, or maybe because of the state of...well...everything. Then Sherlock turned to face them, his eyes squinting and lips curled into his best smile. Their titters crescendoed until they became guffaws. Because really, the whole scene was ridiculous and it was a surprise that no one was injured.

"Yes, well." Sherlock shrugged off his jacket, took the overturned chair at his feet and set it upright, then draped his jacket over the top of it. "Let's get cleaning, shall we?" He was rolling up his shirt sleeves when Mrs. Hudson came back in with the tea tray, complete with ginger biscuits and jammy dodgers.

They spent a better part of the day carrying debris to the bins outside behind the flat, sweeping the rubbish into piles and cleaning anything that could be salvaged. John had also hired a crew to help, so Greg spent most of the time in the kitchen with a hazmat team from the station, since Sherlock's experiments were focused there and it was a biohazard mess. At one point, they found a severed foot hidden under some plates on the floor, apparently broken free from its glass jar that sat upon the kitchen table. Greg picked it up by the heel with a gloved hand, holding it for everyone to see. Then he looked at both Sherlock and John, scanning both of their intact feet and legs.

"Oh, don't be stupid. I got it from Bart's, an intern owed me a favor." Sherlock replied with a sneer. "I'll get another one, Gavin, just throw it out. Experiment wouldn't work now," he mumbled, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. Greg's eyebrows went up and the corners of his mouth turned down in a quick sign of understanding and resignation. He added it to the other miscellaneous half-decomposed body parts that had been littered across the kitchen.

By six pm, the kitchen was mostly clean and deemed good enough to eat in so John had ordered takeaway from the curry place down the block. They settled at the table, John placing the cartons out with cutlery in each. As he sat down, Greg pulled up on his pant legs. Sherlock looked across the table at Greg.

"How was my brother's state this morning?"


	4. Deduction Satisfaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg faces the Baker Street Boys with his night with Mycroft. Mycroft and Greg anticipate their upcoming date.
> 
> "Sherlock had murder in his eyes and it wasn't something Greg planned on dealing with today. Not on his day off."
> 
> .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter, so I'm posting 2 chapters today to make up for it!
> 
> .

**221B Baker St**

"Wha..?" Greg's mouth opened and refused to do anything else.

"Sherlock, what the hell?" John half shouted. Sherlock turned a single raised eyebrow towards John and took a deep breath.

"Oh John, do keep up. The Detective Inspector has pulled the legs of his trousers up no less than five times today because they are longer than his size, telling me they are not his pants. His hair is clean but he did not shave this morning, so he had a shower but did not have access to his shave kit. He had a shower but he did not do it at his own flat because he would have shaved and changed into his own clothes. Since I asked him to look after Mycroft last night and he showed up here, half ten this AM, in clothes that are obviously meant for a taller body, showered, but not shaved, tells me he spent the night with my brother." Absolute silence. "So, I ask again, _Gregory_. How. Is. My brother's. State. Today?" Sherlock rested his elbows on the table and steepled his hands under his chin, leaning forward. John, opened mouthed gaping, also turned to Greg, and waited for the confirmation which he knew would happen. Sherlock was never wrong.

"He's better, Sherlock." Greg sighed. He knew it wouldn't have been a secret for very long. Sherlock accepted this with a confirming "Hmph" and started in on the food. He could have used any name in the book: Geoffrey, Graham, Gordon, George, Grant, even Giovanni. But Gregory was just a little hard hitting right about now.

John was sputtering, "Wha, how, when, did you, sorry, are you….?" Greg shook his head, avoiding the inevitable questions and started dishing a plate for himself. But John was refusing to let go. "Sorry, are we not going to talk about this?" Sherlock smirked at John. "Seriously, am I the only bloody one who didn't know this?" John was almost getting angry.

"John, as usual, you see, but you do not _observe_. Greg and my brother have a long standing relationship based on my well being. They have been in contact for years and each time they spend a significant amount of waking hours trying to help me, they both display a sense of melancholy afterwards. Greg has had a string of unsuccessful lovers since his divorce and he's sick of wasting his time. Mycroft has been so absorbed in his work and my surveillance that he hadn't the time nor the energy to let himself be allowed companionship. Since I have you in my life, he's been less inclined to have to drop everything for me and I sent Greg to look after him yesterday because I believe he is finally willing to allow the cold black organ in his chest to _open,_ as it were, to someone worthy."

"Thank you, Sherlock. That is surprisingly…nice of you to say." Greg hung on Sherlock's last word. And the fact that Sherlock kept saying his correct name. John's eyes were about to fall out of his head.

"You and Mycroft, Greg? That man is the embodiment of evil." Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway, holding the tea tray she had picked up to clean from the sitting room. "Evil, evil man..," she muttered, making her way down the stairs.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Greg pleaded from the kitchen table, but she was already gone. He looked around the table. John's expression had gone to commiseration while Sherlock grinned. Greg sighed. Again. He'd been doing that a lot lately. They finished their dinner in silence. When they were finished, Greg helped John do the washing up.

"Where's Rosie been?" He asked John as they were putting the dishes away, trying like hell to stop John from having that incredulous look on his face.

"Uh, she stayed with some friends of Mary until last night, then Molly came by my flat to collect her this morning. Bit awkward, that was." John pulled his lips in a line and shook his head.

"Oh, because Sherlock spent the night with you?" Greg asked, assuming the two had finally come to terms with their feelings.

"What? No, I'm not gay." John furrowed his brows and gave a half smile, exasperated. "Obviously, you haven't heard-," he lowered his voice then, "-but one of the things that Eurus made Sherlock do was call Molly and get her to say 'I love you' on the phone," John confessed.

"Well, I'm sure when Sherlock told her it was under duress, it wasn't a problem. I mean, she'd do anything for him. Eh, his death for instance..." Greg shrugged it off. It couldn't have been too terrible.

"You think it'd be that easy? We're talking about a psychopath, not a 'high-functioning sociopath' like Sherlock. Sorry, no. He wasn't able to tell her what was going on, why he needed her to say it, nothing. It was terrible. She was in tears. She loves him. I mean, she really loves him."

"But after you explained it this morning?" Greg suddenly felt bad for Sherlock. And Molly.

By now, Sherlock was done pretending to not hear them. He stalked into the kitchen and cleared his throat loudly. Greg decided to finish the conversation later. Sherlock had murder in his eyes and it wasn't something he planned on dealing with today. Not on his day off.

"Well, I better get home. Thanks for the food, mate. Let me know when you want to go and grab a pint," Greg told John. "Bye Sherlock. Don't drive John bonkers."

"Ta." John nodded in his direction.

Greg grabbed his jacket and checked his mobile as he walked down the steps. No texts, no calls. _Apparently, I won't be seeing Mycroft tonight._ They didn't make plans and he knew it, but he had been looking forward to finishing what they started.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Whitehall**

Mycroft could have been having second thoughts. But that's not why he hadn't contacted the older Detective Inspector _with the gorgeous arse._ That was because MI5 needed some help all of a sudden and Mycroft and his team had set about tracking a particular suspected Russian spy who was expected to arrive in London in eleven days. He could have been thinking that his work demands would never allow him to engage in the adequate amount of time needed to devote to someone such as Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Someone who had routinely been taken advantage of, lied to, and otherwise overlooked when it came to matters of the heart. But honestly, even if he couldn't guarantee he could give the good Inspector what he deserved, he was feeling a little selfish after what he didn't get to do this morning.

It was half ten in the evening when Mycroft got a break and a moment for himself. For the brief second he allowed himself to sit and take a breath, he could smell the two days' worth of grime and sweat on himself, scrunching his nose as he inhaled. _For God's sake, Gregory was right._ He reached in his pocket for his mobile and immediately typed out a text.

Text Message To: Lestrade

My apologies, Gregory. I have been otherwise engaged all evening with work.

I do hope I have not woken you with this message but I did not want you to

think that I have changed my mind about our previous concursion.

He sent the text, then with a sudden need for clarity, he sent another.

Text Message To: Lestrade

That is to say, I indeed wish to see you again.

Please do not wait around for me, but I will endeavor

to finish what was started.

He nodded his head to no one, satisfied that his message was clear, then stood up and got back to his team. His phone buzzed in his pocket.

New Text Message From: Lestrade

I'll be honest, I thought you forgot about me.

I've been round to Baker St, your brother knows,

Sorry. Friday, if you're free?

"Oh, for…." Mycroft mumbled under his breath.

"Sir?" Anthea saw the look of disdain on Mycroft's face. He was scowling at his mobile screen. "Do you need anything?" She had really come into her own in the past years. She was able to anticipate his needs, as well as his actions when it came to certain dignitaries he worked with. She knew his preferences in traveling, his takeaway favorites, and even why he wore his grandfather's wedding ring. She was integral to his day to day business. But he preferred to keep her out of his more personal affairs, even if she tried hard to get him to have a life, whether in the bedroom or not.

Mycroft took a few seconds to decide. "Cancel anything after six PM on Friday evening. I have a personal matter to attend to."

"Yes, sir." Anthea answered with a smirk. She immediately set about typing into her own mobile, as Mycroft sent another quick text.

New Text Message To: Lestrade

That would be lovely, Gregory.

I will contact you with details.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Greg's Flat**

Greg smiled at the text. _Gregory._ No one but Mycroft called him that. It felt posh. It felt downright great. But an impending dread still sunk in. He knew Mycroft was a private person and if Sherlock, John and Mrs. Hudson knew, then it would be everywhere in a fortnight. Greg didn't know how well Mrs. Hudson kept secrets, in fact, he didn't know if it _was_ a secret, technically. But Greg also knew that Sherlock's deduction skills were an inevitable tsunami of truth that could be expected to crash even if it was a personal family matter. Mycroft must have expected this to happen.

There really wasn't a point in dwelling on it. It wouldn't change the way he felt about Mycroft, or the fact that he was going to see him again, no matter what got in his way. Because if there was nothing else you could say about Gregory Lestrade, it was that he was determined, possibly to a fault. He wouldn't call it stubborn, himself, but some would say it was stubbornness. He would say it was an asset in his line of work. Bull-headed. You don't become a Detective Inspector lying down. Well, lying down is something he planned to do a lot more in the future now that a certain civil servant had been warming to his charm. _His charm? Jesus._

He turned over in the bed, trying not to think about having to wait 5 days to see Mycroft again, but he had suggested it since he had that following Saturday free and the wait time would allow him to mentally prepare. Actually, he wanted to get out of his head because the more he thought about it, the more nervous he became, but he needed to make a plan. He usually felt that he was better off the cuff where he was able to just do what he needed, what he wanted, and his decisions had mostly been right in the end, except when it came to relationships. When he let his heart make decisions, he tended to become weak and people walked on him, like Cindy. _What a mistake that had been._ He had a lot of love to give, so he was attracted to helpless people, people who required a lot of attention, more than he was able to give since his job required a lot of attention as well.

Sherlock had required a lot of attention in the past. Attention that Greg was more than happy to give, especially at first. In the beginning, Sherlock's drug addiction was like caring for a helpless child. He was moody, erratic, self-possessed, and brilliant. The latter is why Greg had tolerated him. The rest is what caused Greg's paternal instincts to kick in. Sherlock was not a replacement son, but Greg still felt the need to care for him as such, in fact, he didn't just feel the need. Greg fell into the father role pretty quickly and naturally and he liked it. He showed up at crack dens to pull a screaming toddler of a young man from the dirty abandoned flat or warehouse and drag him back to Sherlock's flat to watch him while he came down from whatever drug he had chosen that week. He kept him hydrated, gave him cold cases to work, made tea, and ordered takeaway or made meals. He spent hours watching crime solving shows on the telly, listening to Sherlock mutter about the inconsistencies and telling him how it would have been cleverer to do it a different way.

As Sherlock got better and his drug use got less and less frequent, Greg had introduced him to Molly and her coworkers at Bart's. By that time, Sherlock's help with cases, especially on the lab side, were becoming quite known to not only people at the constabulary, but also at the labs at Bart's. Greg had learned about Sherlock's chemistry work from Mycroft and mentioned it to the powers-that-be at Bart's and they offered for Sherlock to use their facilities as needed. This had come in handy on many occasions, for both Greg and his cases, as well as Sherlock and his personal experiments.

But Sherlock had become a friend, mostly. As close to what Sherlock would call a friend. Greg understood his need for mental stimulation and the result of what can happen when he didn't get it. He may not have understood exactly how his brain worked, but he could understand the correlation between an idle brain and the trouble it caused. Sherlock was beyond intelligent and if he ever thought that his intelligence was not needed, well, Greg didn't ever want to see what happened.

Thankfully, John had come into Sherlock's life, allowing Greg to take a step back. By that time, it was too late with Cindy. She had already stepped out on him multiple times, giving one false reason or another. She didn't understand his need to care for other people, especially Sherlock, when she needed more of his time. It had started with her needing Greg, but she pushed him away when she couldn't comprehend his work priorities. It was the fine balance between the two that she didn't want to deal with. He cared for her, he really did. He wasn't blameless in the failure of his marriage, but the care it took to keep them together had become too much by the end and he had let her go.

Surprisingly, she had come back for a bit and he had welcomed it. He had made a name for himself after their separation and he was no longer doing the beats like he used to as a PC or all the legwork of a Sergeant. But Sherlock had correctly deduced her cheating again and he had broken off all ties after that. Greg dreaded to remember the terrible dates that proceeded. And Sherlock had been right about them as well, they weren't right for him. Obviously, Sherlock knew more than he did, even about what type of person he should pursue, since he had set him up to… _What, exactly? Date his brother? Sex up his brother?_ God, did he want to _._

So he needed a plan. He was going to make sure that Mycroft was wooed. He wanted him to feel comfortable, that he could open up and share with Greg. What he really wanted was to peel off the figurative (and physical) armor of the man who always been untouchable, unreachable. He wanted to see what lay beneath, what made him be so protective of his little brother, what made him _him_. What made him gasp.

Yep, it was going to be hard to wait until Friday.


	5. Domesticity Dilemma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have a lot to talk about. It hasn't been easy for John since Mary died, he's had too much to face in regards to his own feelings.
> 
> ""Come to bed, love." It was a mumble, or a whisper, or a combination of both. Sherlock stopped breathing and sucked in his lower lip."
> 
> .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the second chapter I promised since chapter 4 is so short. This is a Johnlock chapter.

**221B Baker St**

John finished putting the dishes away while Sherlock watched him from the edge of the kitchen. He turned around to see Sherlock's arms crossed in front of his chest, leaning against the wall. His face was emotionless, his scowl had disappeared the second Greg had closed the door, but his eyes held an emotion that John couldn't quite name. Sadness? Anger? Disappointment? None seemed right, but yet they didn't seem wrong either.

"What is it?" John asked him, wiping his hands on a kitchen flannel and stepping towards him. He threw the towel on the counter before putting his hands on the back of a kitchen chair.

"I like having you here." Sherlock kept staring into John's eyes. "I know you're safe." John didn't have to hear an explanation. Sherlock didn't function well without John, and John knew that. He could read everything in Sherlock's eyes: _I missed you. You're my best friend. I would do anything for you, to keep you happy._ But maybe that's just what John wanted to read in Sherlock. John realized, the statement Sherlock made had actually meant, ' _I'm safe when I'm with you.'_

"Oh, well. Yeah, right. Being safe. That's good, yeah." He looked down at his watch. "I have to go get Rosie, Molly's working a late shift tonight. Are you finished here? Do you need to do anything else, or are you coming with me?" John was hopeful, he didn't want to go back to his house alone, to be surrounded by the memories of Mary and the fact that she was gone.

Having Sherlock back in his life was complicated enough, but he had come to terms with blame at least. He didn't blame Sherlock anymore, in fact, it was a mix of emotions. He had missed his life with Sherlock; he missed the excitement, he missed caring for him in his daily activities. He even missed arguing with him over grocery shopping and paying bills. He also resented Sherlock for everything that had happened. If he had not met Sherlock, he wouldn't have to worry about constant threats. There would have been no kidnappings, no emergency patch jobs, no staying awake for days at a time chasing criminals around the broken streets of London. If he had not met Sherlock, he would have had a chance at a normal life. But could he call what he had a normal life? Who was he kidding? Because before Sherlock, he felt he had no purpose. And that wasn't a normal life. He was alone, depressed, and suicidal. And Sherlock had made him realize his addiction to danger, the soldier in the war. So without Sherlock, his life was so meaningless that he didn't mind if it ended at all. And with Sherlock, his life was routinely threatened to end, but he felt the most alive. John would rather choose a life that offered the best and the worst, than a life with nothing.

"I'll meet you there a bit later. I don't think I should be around for…it." Sherlock motioned vaguely with his hand.

"Oh, right, Molly. Yeah. Okay, I'll see you at home, then?" Sherlock nodded as John grabbed his jacket and headed to the door. _Home._ Sherlock looked sullen in the lamplight of the sitting room. His chair was cleaned off and upright, the seat's indent was the perfect fit for Sherlock's backside. It was going to take a bit of work to get the flat back to where it had been before the grenade, but there was too much history here to let it go. John watched Sherlock sit down in the chair, his body fitting perfectly into the leather. "Hey, things're looking up, yeah?" John offered.

"Mm." Sherlock replied, turning his head to the side and hiding his mouth with his hand. John turned and with a final look at his best friend, closed the door behind him. John didn't know what the future held for them. He wasn't one hundred percent set on staying at his current flat by himself, but the thought of moving back into 221B was just as distressing. Did he just carry on as if Mary never happened? He immediately shook the thought from his head. _Rosie. With Rosie, I'll always have a part of Mary._ And what would happen as Rosie got older? He would eventually need to move out to find a two bedroom flat to accommodate a growing girl. He pushed the conversation out of his head for the night.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock waited until he heard John's footsteps reach the bottom of the stairs and the unmistakable click of the front door as he left. He got up out of the chair and headed to John's old room. There was nothing left of John here, just a ghost of him, wafting through the dust filled air. The only furniture that remained was a mattress and frame, still covered in bedclothes. John had only used it a handful of times since Sherlock had come back from the dead. The pillowcase was clean and as fresh as it could be, the blanket tossed a bit from its brief use. Sherlock reached out and brushed his fingertips over the sheets, wondering about the future of the bed. They hadn't discussed what would happen after the flat was renovated. Would John come back for good? Bring little Rosie to this flat that was so often acquainted with danger? It was foolish to think that.

He was going to have to get used to having less of John in his life. He could offer to watch Rosie more often, though babies were not really something he was interested in. But then again, Rosie was a Watson. A piece of the man he loved. And as a Watson, she should have the best of everything, which of course meant a full education, which Sherlock could definitely help provide. _That settles it. I'll offer to watch Rosie._

Sherlock threw himself on the bed and wrapped his arms around the pillow, curling his body around it. He inhaled deeply, but there was only a trace of John's scent, not enough to satisfy his need to be near him. It was just enough of John's scent to quiet his mind long enough to fall asleep.

He awoke four hours later, feeling cold and disoriented. He crept back down to the kitchen and filled the pot for tea. He cursed, trying to turn the hob on to no avail and remembered that the gas had been shut off because of the grenade. The windows had been covered with plastic earlier while they cleaned but now he felt like he was suffocating. He took a few long strides to the window and ripped a hole in the plastic with his hand, breathing deep as the fresh brisk air rushed in.

Although he already missed John, he dreaded going to the home that John had shared with Mary. It was a constant reminder that he had failed. He had failed to keep her safe, and thus failed his one promise to John. John had forgiven him, but despite the tender smiles and reassuring voice, Sherlock had his reservations. It didn't feel right being forgiven. He didn't deserve it.

Sherlock decided to take the long way back to John's, walking instead of getting a taxi. It allowed him to enter his mind palace, studying the wing that looked exactly like 221B, which he reserved for everything relating to John. John's laugh, his scent, his voice when happy, his voice when mad, the words he said when he thought Sherlock couldn't hear him. He felt the warmth of John's soft jumper as they fell asleep on the sofa too many times to count, the sound of his voice gently waking Sherlock up in the morning and handing him a cup of tea. John did a lot of little things with such great care, it was hard to ignore them. His mind palace version of 221B was full, bursting at the seams with John. Sometimes, Sherlock would simply sit in his chair, in the mind palace 221B and watch memories of John. John coming home with groceries. John coming home from bad dates. John updating his blog. John reading the paper and smiling. John making breakfast and setting the plate in front of Sherlock, then picking it up hours later when it wasn't touched. It made Sherlock happy, these simple memories of ordinary life with his blogger, his flatmate, his best friend.

Though they were real memories of John, sometimes Sherlock changed them. He extended parts he liked the best, rewound and played them over and over. He replayed the moment that they had come back from chasing the taxi around London, the first night on a case together. It was one of the happiest moments of his life. He was on a case, he had a newer place to live, and he met someone who didn't see him as a complete pariah. It was an easier time then, not filled with such complications as it was now.

When Sherlock arrived back at John's place, he found the door left unlocked and the house was dark save for one lamp in the living room. John was feeling rather trusting lately now that the recent threats had been abated. Sherlock locked the door behind him and turned off the lamp. He closed his eyes and waited a moment as the surrounding blackness enveloped him. Once he opened his eyes, they had adjusted to the dark and he quietly walked towards John's room, standing in the open doorway. John was sprawled out on the bed on his back, legs caught in the sheets, lit by the glow of the mute television. Though he only wore boxers and a cotton vest, he was coated in a thin sheen of sweat across his collarbones and brow.

Sherlock watched him for a minute, the gentle rising and falling of his chest, the even breaths that showed he slept. The baby monitor on the side table emitted an electric whine, so quiet and high pitched that it could only be distinguished in the quietest of rooms. He could hear the gentle rattle of Rosie sleeping through it and he knew she was sleeping just above them in her nursery. John moaned and made a movement like he was going to sit up.

"Come to bed, love." It was a mumble, or a whisper, or a combination of both. Sherlock stopped breathing and sucked in his lower lip. "Mary…" It was more of a whine this time and John turned over to his side, oblivious to his sleep mutterings. Sherlock silently approached the bed. He reached out his hand and it hovered above John's head in hesitation, feeling the warmth radiating off of him. He let out a sigh and pulled the sheet up over John's shoulders, then turned off the television and closed the door behind him.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**John's Flat**

John slipped out of his bed at half six when he heard Rosie fussing over the monitor. He put on his slippers and his dressing gown, tying the belt on the side as he opened his bedroom door. The house was quiet and the sun had just begun to rise, casting a pink light through the East facing windows. As he passed the livingroom, a dark mass on the sofa caught his attention, a black wool coat ball with thin back cotton socks peaking out one side. John had not heard him come in, so it must have been after eleven PM. He didn't want to wake him, sleep had not come easy for them the night before. John could see just a hint of the pale skin of Sherlock's face tucked under the upturned collar of the jacket, and blanketed by a few soft black curls. He resisted the urge to tuck the stray hairs behind Sherlock's ear. It had been a long time since John was able to watch his detective taken by a peaceful sleep, his brain quiet while his body did the most natural thing it could.

John gathered up Rosie from her crib and brought her downstairs after changing her nappy and putting her in a new outfit. Sherlock was still asleep on the couch so he brought Rosie into the kitchen to prepare a bottle and some finger foods for her. When she was done eating, he set up a play mat on the floor beside his sleeping detective and placed her down to play.

By eight AM Sherlock was still asleep, Rosie was gurgling softly and John was preparing his own breakfast.

John watched as Sherlock woke to tiny fingers pulling at his jacket. Startled, he jerked up, disrupting Rosie's attempt to reach him from the floor and she plopped back down on her cushioned behind, letting out a grunt. They stared at each other, wide eyed until Rosie started a soft whimper, which turned into a muffled cry.

"Miss Watson, it's ok." Sherlock reached down and picked her up, pulling her close to his chest, her face pressed hard into his scarf. "Don't worry, little bee, it's only me."

John came in with a cup of tea and placed it on the side table for Sherlock. He wanted to ask Sherlock what happened last night and why he came back so late, but it didn't matter. He was home and he was clean, at least by all observations.

"Did you give each other a startle?" John asked, reaching out and rubbing Rosie's cheek. Rosie giggled and pulled closer into Sherlock's chest.

"She was pulling herself up to the sofa. She should be walking by now," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. "She should be talking by now, as well."

"Sherlock, she's only nine months old. She's developing exactly how she should be." John leaned in to give her a kiss on the head, but she evaded his lips and pulled closer to Sherlock's chest. John's head slid with her, pushing directly into Sherlock's lips. The accidental kiss to his forehead sent him jerking away, wide-eyed and stammering.

"I…uh...sorry…she...it's…ah." His cheeks were red and he immediately put his hands into his dressing gown pockets and examined the floorboards.

"It's good," Sherlock whispered, looking at little Rosie in his arms. "I was thinking that maybe I could help her reach her full potential, teach her a bit since she needs the assistance. I'll watch her when you go back to the surgery." He said it louder, as to negate his previous whisper. That snapped John out of his embarrassment.

"Are you sure? I mean, she _is_ a baby. I can't imagine you have much experience with babies."

"John, seriously. It can't be that hard. Food, nappies, sleep. It's not like I need to know String Theory, even if I do. Anything I don't know, I can research. And I know where you'll be." His eyebrows were raised. He was hopeful, he wanted to watch her. _Maybe he's trying to show that he's responsible._

"Ok. I'm back in a couple of days. We can try it out. Mrs. Hudson has offered to watch her too so she can help out as needed. Will the flat be ready by then?" Sherlock absent-mindedly stroked Rosie's back while bouncing his knees, sending the golden-haired baby bobbing against his chest. He considered the question, mentally calculating whatever it was he was calculating.

"Yes, I should think so. Most of it will be done by professionals today, windows replaced and the like." Sherlock's voice became a falsetto halfway through and he pushed his face into Rosie's, causing a swarm of giggles to erupt from her like a music box opened in an empty auditorium. John was mystified. The care in which Sherlock held and played with Rosie was something he could hardly have imagined on the first day meeting him, let alone after everything he had seen and learned about the man in the time he had known him. This was the same man with whom he chased down deadly criminals, had to stop from shooting inside the flat, and risked his life with drugs just to prove a point. Babies changed things. Love changed things. _Is it possible that Sherlock could love?_

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**221B Baker St**

After two days of working on the flat, they were almost done, just a few details like the wallpaper and the delivery of some new furniture. John purchased a new cot and baby monitor to go upstairs in his old room for when Sherlock watched Rosie.

John came back to the flat, pulling the large box behind him. He set it inside the living room and paused to take off his jacket and catch his breath. Sherlock was standing on a chair, shaking out fresh curtains before hanging them on the rod above the window.

"I'm back at surgery tomorrow, so I got some things to make watching Rosie easier. I'll just put the cot upstairs then?" John asked Sherlock's back. Sherlock stopped with his hands midair, seeming to contemplate John's words. He turned and gracefully stepped off the chair, dusting his hands as he went.

"You already have a cot and a monitor for Rosie," Sherlock stated while glancing at the bag in John's hand and the large box he had set to the side. John scoffed and put a hand on his hip.

"Well, yes, but I'm not going to lug them back and forth each time I bring her here for you to babysit." He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. Obviously he had no idea the trouble that would cause riding the bus with everything needed.

"I assumed you were moving back in." Sherlock looked like a puppy who had been kicked. John exhaled sharply. They hadn't discussed it, but he hadn't quite made a decision yet. Long term meant that he would eventually need a new flat anyway. Short term meant that it would make everything much easier, including satiating his need to not be alone.

"I…I don't know. It's a lot to think about." John rubbed the back of his neck.

"There is nothing to think about, you belong here, John. This is your home." Sherlock's eyes were pleading, but he hadn't moved a muscle in the rest of his body. He stood still and tall, a menacing figure in his fancy trousers and slim cut suit jacket. John didn't want to argue, but this wasn't something he could rationalise in an instant.

"I have a baby now, and she'll need more space. There's only two bedrooms. I need to think about it." Before he could be convinced otherwise, he grabbed the box and started upstairs with it.

John set up the cot slowly, taking the time to figure out his feelings. He grabbed the wrench to tighten the nuts onto bolts. Sherlock was not easy to live with. He shot holes in the walls. He had a history of drugs. The dangerous chemicals. The experiments. The body parts. _Weapons. Murders. Threats._ John cranked on the wrench, twisting it far past its ability and it came crashing into his thumb.

"BUGGER!" John screeched, dropping the wrench and bringing his thumb to his mouth.

"John!" Sherlock came running up the stairs in record time, his legs moving like a newborn giraffe, slipping and sliding on the foot-polished wood floor. "Are you alright?" His eyes were wide and he looked around for the assailant that he must have thought John was fighting.

"It's ok, Sherlock. I just jammed my hand with a tool. It's fine." Sherlock's face relaxed and John watched it with fascination. Sherlock cared for him, more than he cared about anyone else. John knew that. He suddenly had absolutely no fear in leaving Rosie in Sherlock's care. The only issue is the body parts and the experiments. Asking Sherlock to not participate in his daily lab experiments would be like asking a dog not to bark. He would bounce off the walls within hours. There had to be some sort of compromise to make it work. _Maybe a separate area for the experiments? I wonder if Mrs. Hudson would let the basement to us for it._

"John, this looks very technical. Why don't I finish it, while you make some tea?" Sherlock smiled and picked up the wrench, already starting to work on the nuts and bolts. He put his head down, immediately engrossed in the task at hand. John shook his head and hid his smile in his jumper collar.

****

John went home an hour later to relax before picking up Rosie. He sifted through the post on the floor: bills, ads, and a thin square express envelope. He opened it slowly, knowing what it was already. It was another DVD, the same that Mary had arranged to have sent to Sherlock not too long ago. A clear sleeve with the words _MISS YOU_ on it. He rang Sherlock to come.

John stared at the sleeve. Mary had thought of everything. She had anticipated her own death, something he had never planned for. Living with Mary had made him feel young again, even having Rosie had made him feel like he was in the prime of his life. When Sherlock was gone, he didn't care what happened when he died. There was no one who cared if he was there or not so there was nothing to plan. But Mary had not only anticipated her death, she planned for it and planned for John and Rosie. She planned for their mourning, for his reckless behaviour, for his complete and utter devastation that would send him into a dangerous spiral. The words on the cover blurred as John stared at them. It was too much.

Mary was clever. John had always admired that about her. She always knew what to do, even when she hid everything from him. Despite her actions, he couldn't deny that it was clever, that she had thought out every detail. Even if it was wrong to keep it from him. She had loved him. She had loved him more than it seemed that he had loved her. It ate at him, the guilt and the regret. He had betrayed her trust after he had already forgiven her for her sins. Being reminded of it caused the same conflicting feelings for him that he felt about Sherlock. It made him angry and it made him sad. He wanted to mourn her and remember her, but he also wanted to forget her and scorn her. He could stay in the flat that they shared, and raise their daughter and be a good widower. He could mourn his wife and the life they had together. Or he could move back into 221B with his dangerous consulting detective, back to his old life, and raise his daughter around the crime and peril, chemicals and body parts. _His detective?_ Sherlock didn't belong to anyone. But then again, if he did, he certainly belonged to Captain John Watson. _He didn't belong to Dr. Watson._ John couldn't deny the reaction Sherlock had each time John had pulled rank. He may not be as smart as Sherlock, but he had learned to take notice.

_Well, it didn't take long for Sherlock to take over my thoughts again._ John shook his head. Here he stood, a message from the grave in his hand and he was thinking about his best friend's face when he used his military rank. It was inappropriate. It was obscene. It felt a little good. In a dirty sort of way. Then the guilt came back.

When Sherlock arrived, he didn't take off his coat or even sit down. John silently put the DVD into the player and sat on the sofa to watch.

_I know you two. And if I'm gone, I know what you can become. Because I know who you really are. A junkie who solves crimes to get high. And the doctor who never came home from the war._

John cried silently. He let his tears wet his lap as he sat with his head in his hands. He had made up his mind. The second that digital Mary started talking, he knew. She already knew what he should do and she wasn't even there anymore. She had planned for him, knowing that he would need the emotional support, knowing that he would be mourning her in their flat, and that he would be debating on moving back to 221B. She had it all figured out for him. But it was a weight off his shoulders, he didn't even have to think about it anymore, she had wanted it.

"I'll move back," he said abruptly. "As soon as it's ready. I'll come back. You're right, I belong there. You're both right. You both always knew me better than me, right?" He sounded bitter and immediately regretted it, especially after the look on Sherlock's face. "I'm sorry. I just mean that you both have always been one step ahead of me, and I'm ok with that. I know you always have my best interest at heart, or something like that." He scoffed.

"Always, John. Always."

"I have one request before I can do it though." Sherlock looked apprehensive at that but he didn't say anything. "I can't have a baby around all of the chemicals and the body parts. We need to discuss where you can move your lab so I can raise Rosie safely. Soon enough, she will be walking around and the flat isn't safe the way it was. No more experiments in the kitchen, no more body parts in the fridge, and we need to install some safety measures. Good?" John looked at him through wet lashes, but his lips were tight and his shoulders set. He stood up and cleared his throat, hoping to portray his captain persona.

"Of course." Sherlock's cheeks were tinged pink and he kept his eyes averted. "I can ask Mrs. Hudson about the basement flat to move anything dangerous for Rosie. It would be beneficial to have some additional space anyway." He smiled deviously.

"Thank you, Sherlock. That means a lot to me. To us. I can't imagine being anywhere but Baker Street." He moved towards Sherlock and embraced him fully. Sherlock stiffened his back at the abrupt hug, but easily melted in his arms. John took a deep yet discreet inhale of Sherlock's coat: Formaldehyde, burnt hair, pine tar, wood smoke, lavender, maybe decaying flesh? It wasn't appetizing, to say the least. John couldn't even start to deduce where Sherlock had been and what he had been doing to accumulate all of these scents on his jacket, but he didn't care. If he wanted to know, he could ask. What he did care about was that Sherlock was his best friend, his life-line, his reason to move on and continue to be the best person for his daughter. He would call him his soulmate if he had never met Mary, but it was hard to say. He had only known that soulmates were meant to be together, which is how he had felt about Mary. With Mary gone, he was starting to see that Sherlock was the constant in his life. No matter how hard he tried to get away, distance himself, even Sherlock faking his own death and being gone for two years didn't change the draw he had towards him. Like a moth to a flame, with the same deadly results. He was fascinated, blinded, and yet ensconced in this savant's burning flame. He had skipped the whole "get to know you" phase with Sherlock and jumped right into the "die on the sword for you" phase. But John didn't think of it in such simple terms, he just knew that he felt an undeniable bond to this immature genius who forgot simple daily knowledge in exchange for different types of cigar ash.

"Sorry." John pulled away.

"No, uh…." Sherlock hummed a bit. His cheeks were red again and he kept his head angled down as John backed up and straightened his shirt.

"Yes, uh, I need to…ah…the baby." John cleared his throat. "Rosie," he clarified.

"Of course, yes. I'll come back later." He turned and headed out the front door, leaving John in a state of purgatory. John wavered between being relieved and empty as the front door closed. The flat suddenly seemed barren, the bang of the door echoed throughout the living room. He sighed and sat down on the sofa again. Was it going to be awkward between them with John moving back in? Recently, they had had too many physical encounters that were getting rather intimate in nature that John was enjoying. The loss of Mary was probably causing his need for physical intimacy. He would need to keep that in check around Sherlock. John wasn't ready for another relationship just yet, it had only been a couple months since losing Mary. The guilt was too fresh, the pain too deep. The only person he even felt comfortable touching, even in a non-sexual way, was Sherlock.

John's phone dinged just as he was about to leave for Molly's to get Rosie. It was Lestrade, wanting to get together for a drink later that night. John contemplated it. He hadn't been able to spend a lot of time with Rosie this week, but a couple of hours at the pub with his good friend could be good for him. He confirmed going out and decided that he could leave Rosie with Mrs. Hudson since it was on the way to the pub.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**221B Baker St**

John arrived at Baker Street about a half hour before he needed to meet Lestrade.

"Oh, John, you know I love watching your little girl!" Mrs. Hudson cooed over the little girl. She grabbed Rosie from John's arms and cuddled her to her chest.

"I really appreciate it, Mrs. Hudson. I'm sorry for the late notice." He dropped the baby bag inside her flat and teetered on his heels. "Is Sherlock in?" He tried to sound nonchalant, but it came out sounding too eager. He swallowed his pride and rode with it. Mrs. Hudson already had her mind set and there was no point in trying to convince her otherwise anyway.

"Oh, I'm sure if you listen carefully, you'll get your answer," she replied cryptically. John unconsciously stopped breathing to listen for any movement upstairs, but instead of footfalls, he heard the heart-retching sounds of a violin. The melody carried through the walls, pulling all the feeling into John's gut. It was devastating. John didn't understand why it was so sad. _What would be the reason for Sherlock to play such sad music today?_ He replayed what happened. Did it have something to do with the DVD from Mary? Did something happen before or after that encounter? It was hard to tell with Sherlock. It's not like he was always forthcoming with his emotions, at least not verbally.

John gave a weak smile to Mrs. Hudson and gave her a few tips regarding Rosie's newfound habit of pulling herself up on furniture. After he was completely satisfied with his shared information, he gave Rosie a kiss and headed up the stairs towards the haunting music. He opened the door quietly and slowly, trying not to disturb Sherlock and hoping he was standing in his usual place in front of the freshly replaced window. He was pleasantly surprised to find that he had indeed succeeded. Sherlock had his back to the door, facing the window and pulling his bow across the violin strings with grace and confidence. His face was haloed by the streetlights outside and his eyes were closed, focused on the violin in his hands. It seemed a contradiction for such an analytical brain to create such evocative music. He must have known exactly how the notes connected and how the tones worked together. John watched until he could feel the music swelling in his chest and he audibly let out his breath.

Sherlock stopped and abruptly turned, bringing his bow down.

"John." He whispered it. He obviously wasn't expecting company.

"Is everything alright?" John asked, almost afraid of the answer. Hopefully, it wasn't something to do with family. There was enough of that at this time. Sherlock didn't answer, he merely hummed in response. He set his violin back in the case on the floor and strolled to the side table for his cold tea, most likely made by Mrs. Hudson.

"I was just dropping off Rosie with Mrs. Hudson, I'm going to meet Lestrade at the pub," John offered. Sherlock nodded at that. He was obviously preoccupied and John didn't want to set him in a bad mood. Sherlock put his cup down and took the few long strides to stand in front of John at the door.

"Mycroft and I are going to tell my parents about Eurus tonight," Sherlock muttered quietly, his head bowed slightly, not making eye contact. John didn't know what to say.

"Oh," he finally offered. "I hope that goes well." Did Sherlock need reassurance, or a pep-talk? He was acting stranger than normal, but he had been through a lot in the last few days. John was going to say something else to help out, but he was cut short by Sherlock closing the gap between them and wrapping his arms around John's shoulders, effectively trapping him in.

"Thank you, John." Sherlock whispered into John's ear. He lifted a hand up and pulled it through John's hair, before releasing him. He reached for his coat, swung it over as he put his arms in and was out the door in an instant.

John was left with his hair mussed and his cheeks red.


	6. Apprehension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg have five days until they meet up again. Greg has a pint (or four) with John, Mycroft and Sherlock confront their parents about Eurus.
> 
> ""That's great, so you and Sherlock...?" Greg held his beer up, the cold condensation dripping down his fingers while he waited for an answer.  
> "Ah, we're good, yeah. Great. Fantastic. Never been better." Yes, John was definitely sweating a little now. "Is it hot in here?" He laughed and pulled off his jumper."

**New Scotland Yard**

Monday morning was the best part of Greg's week. He was pleasantly surprised by a box of fancy French pastries from Maison Bertaux and a bag of fresh roasted coffee grounds resting on a stack of long overdue reports on his desk. The small yellow card read simply, "Detective Inspector" and on the back, it read, "-MH".

Greg smiled fondly and shook his head. _Gifts already?_ He wasn't sure what he did to deserve them, but he was going to make sure the next time he saw Mycroft, he would show his appreciation. After taking a particularly delicious looking profiterole for himself, he brought the box and the coffee grounds into the kitchen to put in the maker. He smiled as he watched it brew into the pot. So Mycroft was a bit of a romantic, eh? He could work with that.

"What's put you in a good mood, then?" Sally Donovan was behind him, grabbing a mug from the cupboard. Greg had no inclination to explain what had happened to him that weekend, let alone that it had something to do with a Holmes. Especially that it had something to do with a Holmes. He had no idea what was happening between them anyway. He spent one basically chaste night with him, and then they made tentative plans for dinner. That didn't constitute dating by any means. It would be best to not even elude to anything until there was something to say on the matter.

"Don't eat all of these before the rest of the crew gets in. It's not their fault that you're an early riser, Sally." Greg avoided the question and pointed to the box of pastries. "Now, get to work, you don't get paid to sit in the kitchen and gossip." He winked and walked out with his fresh cup of coffee, leaving Sally questioning him through narrow eyes.

The smell of the coffee hit him first before he could sit down at his desk. He took a minute to just inhale it. It was heavenly. It was like a lazy Sunday morning in the French countryside, like the last time he visited his parents since they moved out to the little village in Normandy. It conjured faint birdsong, a warm sun and light breeze. Greg made a mental note to give them a call soon.

Besides Monday, it had proven to be a fairly average week for Greg, despite the anticipation. He was swamped with paperwork, only leaving his desk to refill his mug with the wonderful fancy coffee in the kitchen and when he could fit a run in during his lunch. He had a few simple cases, nothing they needed Sherlock for, and nothing that required him to be on scene, which made him itchy for something to do.

Greg scrolled through his emails on Tuesday and found another email from Superintendent Pitts, showing him the opening for the Detective Chief Inspector position. He sighed. He knew it was past time to apply for a promotion, but the thought of even less field time than he currently had weighed on him. He knew he wasn't getting any younger, but chasing criminals was one of the main reasons he joined the force. Thanks to Sherlock, he was closing more cases than he had before him, so his stats were remarkable. He was, by all means, an exemplary officer with an exemplary record. But that meant he was destined to move up and have more responsibility over a larger team, probably conduct trainings, which might be fun, and more paperwork. He wouldn't be called out to the scene unless it was something high profile. He decided to mull it over for a few more days at least.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**The King's Head Pub**

On Wednesday, Greg went to meet John at The King's Head for a drink. He bought two pints and chose a table near the front windows to wait for him, with a clear view of the footie match on the screen but away from the noise at the bar. He only had a couple more days before he saw Mycroft again. He really wasn't sure if he could get good advice on a Holmes brother from John, since it wasn't as if John and Sherlock were technically a couple. Granted, they obviously had feelings for each other but with John's insistence otherwise, nothing was going to happen anytime soon. Even the bet pool at the Yard was getting quite large; it hadn't been long since it's creation, but everyone who met both John and Sherlock expected them to be together at some point.

John came in a few minutes later, a smile on his face and a warm tan jumper under his overcoat. His hair was ruffled and he had a slight rosiness to his cheeks. He looked like he had just rolled out of bed despite it being just after eight pm.

"Hey, mate! You feeling a'ight?" Greg called to him, passing him the tall glass.

"Ah, cheers! Yes, 'course, of course," he replied, trying to repress his now wide smile but failing quite miserably.

"Well, you're in a much better mood than earlier this week. Did you get the flat all finished?" It was possible. John was quite efficient and Sherlock had the means and the persuasive personality to get what he needed quickly. But by the deeper flush in John's cheeks, now spreading to his neck, Greg no longer thought that it had anything to do with the state of the flat.

"Ah, almost, yeah. The new wall coverings are getting put up tomorrow and some furniture is being delivered on Friday. Sherlock s'not looking forward to getting a new desk, but some of the furniture was beyond repair. I'm not sure how he's done it, but we're almost back to normal there." He chuckled and bobbed his head, pleased with himself, but more importantly, proud of his consulting detective. He had adoration in his eyes that Greg envied.

"So, you're living back there, with Sherlock? You and Rosie?"

"Yeah, I mean, once it's finished and safe for a baby. For now, we're living at mine." John took a big gulp of his beer. "It's only been a few days, but I think we'll be settled back by next week."

"That's great, so you and Sherlock...?" Greg held his beer up, the cold condensation dripping down his fingers while he waited for an answer. John looked to be breaking a bit of a sweat on his brow. He finished off his pint and set it down, looking towards the large mahogany bar for the fellow behind it. He pointed at Greg's half-empty glass and Greg nodded. He came back with two more pints and promptly took another long pull from his. Greg could only stare, wide-eyed and puzzled.

"Ah, we're good, yeah. Great. Fantastic. Never been better." Yes, he was definitely sweating a little now. "Is it hot in here?" He laughed and pulled off his jumper so he was left with just a white cotton shirt. "That's better." He settled on the chair and gripped his glass in earnest. "So, you and Mycroft then?" Greg rolled his eyes and smiled at the change in subject. Something was going on with them. He made a note to himself to pick a closer date in the Yard pool.

"Uh…yeah, mate! It was weird, to be honest. I've had a thing for him for a long time, since we met really. But it's never really been a good time. I mean, I assume for him as well. Honestly...everything that Sherlock said the other night is true. All of it. I had no idea that Mycroft was...interested in me. He really wasn't handling that incident with his sister well so I stayed with him for the night." Greg didn't want to go into detail, but if he was going to talk to anyone about this, it would be John. At least he knew that John wouldn't harass him the same way that anyone from the Yard would.

"So...sorry, you two...?"

"Well, that's a bit not your business, but no. Work happened, mate. His, not mine. We're on the books for Friday though, I think he wants to take me to dinner to thank me for being there on Sunday."

"I didn't know you were...gay." John whispered the last word like it was a curse.

Greg laughed. "Really? It's not some disease, John. I've had my fair share of both women and blokes. I had a longer relationship in college with a guy, even. I don't really think of it like that though, it's more like, when you meet someone that sparks for you. If they're fit, they're fit. Doesn't matter if they're a bloke or a bird."

"But why Mycroft?" Greg smiled at that. He scanned the table for help in describing what it was that attracted him to the man that no one seemed to like, but the wood grain held no clues. John could have asked 'why a man?' but he didn't. He was more interested in why a certain person. If this wasn't a hint for his feelings for Sherlock, Greg was a terrible detective.

"That's...Well...uh. It's hard to describe. I like redheads for starters, the pale skin, the freckles. But it's more than looks, it's his mind, his spirit. When I first met him, he tried to intimidate me. It didn't work. I didn't know who he was and I didn't care. What I _did_ take away from it was that he deeply cares for Sherlock."

"Oh, yeah, I know about his intimidation techniques. You know he had me kidnapped and brought to a warehouse? He tried to offer me money to spy on Sherlock for him. I refused of course, and I'm sure that's why he let me stick around." John laughed. "But that did something for you?" he asked with a twinkle in his eye.

"It was touching really. He's smart, and determined; a strong sense of duty and purpose. But he's also insecure, stubborn, shy, and somewhat naïve. He's graceful, with musician's hands." Greg smiled a bit shyly. He shouldn't be shy. It's not like he'd never sat in this same place and heard John's favorite things about the women he had met.

"Musician's hands?" John's curiosity was piqued. He pulled his lips into a tight line and gave a quizzical look, shaking his head a little.

"Yeah, you know, long, graceful fingers, almost delicate hands." John's eyes widened and he coughed a little on the sip of beer he took.

"Oh! Yeah, ok, right. Yeah. Musician's hands, right." John's face had started to settle back to its original color before now, but the flush came back simultaneously with his reply. Greg imagined that John saw many, if not all, of these characteristics in Sherlock as well. But the musician's hands were something that Greg had witnessed John stare at before.

"I know most people look at him and see some pompous civil servant, but I've seen more than that. We've spent time together when Sherlock was still a junkie. I was there for him when he would go through detox, which meant I saw a lot of Mycroft; worried, stressed, frustrated. You really get to know someone when you see them during something like that. He'd tried to hide it, of course. But I've seen more than most."

"And no one at the Yard has a problem with you being with a bloke?" John was going to get quite hammered at this rate. He took the last gulp of his beer and stood up, waiting to hear the answer before setting off towards the bar again.

"Slow down, mate, are you building courage or trying to forget something, because if you keep going at the rate you're going, you're going to forget your own name before the end of the night." Greg put his hand out and stopped John. He waited until John sighed in resignation and sat back down. "And no, you think I care what anyone thinks about who I spend my time with? If that were the case, I would have left Sherlock in the holding cell on the first day I met him. I would prefer, however, to keep my mystery man a secret to certain people until I know how to explain it. Plus, I only spent one night with him. That's not a relationship. Who knows how this will go?" He took another small sip of the beer in his hand. "So, you want to talk about what's making you so parched tonight?"

"Ah," John chuckled. Greg may not have been on the level of Sherlock Holmes, but John was fairly easy to read. When he was nervous, he laughed tightly. When he was embarrassed, he blushed. When he was conflicted, he looked down and crossed his arms. He did all of these things in this instance. "I, uh…we had a moment. Sherlock and I, tonight. Right before I left to come here."

"A moment? What kind of a moment?"

"Not, uh, no. It was stupid really. He just, uh….he just ruffled my hair a bit. It wasn't anything, really."

"Oh." Greg tried to think of something to say. Did he tell John the obvious and point out that there are feelings between him and the consulting detective? Or did he continue to let him come to the conclusion on his own? _Ah, this is getting ridiculous._ "Are you really this daft?"

"W-What? What are you…I don't understand." John smiled, shaking his head, then furrowed his brows and straightened his lips.

"John, mate, everyone s'been tip-toing around this since you two met. I don't care what you tell the world, but stop lying to yourself. If you want something, go for it. But it's pretty obvious you do. Haven't you been through enough to know that you don't always get a second chance? Let alone, the three or four that you've had?"

John sat back in his chair, his mouth slack. He appeared to chew on a revelation for some time. He crossed his arms over his chest and took a deep breath.

"Lemme get us a couple more, yeah?" Greg got up and ordered 2 more pints. John was still sitting in the same position, seemingly lost in thought.

He didn't want to, but Greg pitied the man. He looked at Sherlock like he was the only person on the planet. He hadn't even looked at his own wife at their wedding the same way. When Sherlock had faked his own death, John was beyond inconsolable. He was macabre, lifeless, suicidal even. Greg had been there for John as much as he could but he had refused to see anyone for a long time. Greg had finally had enough and used the key he had to 221B, which had been supplied by Mycroft for drug related issues with Sherlock. He had found John thin, unshaven, shaking, gun in hand. It had been 3 months after Sherlock had "died" and everyone else around had moved on. Life outside of 221B had resumed as normal, the postman continued to deliver the post door to door, tea was still being brewed, and the Yard still dealt with criminals on a daily basis. Greg had continued work, after his suspension during the investigation of Sherlock's death. He was back to work within a month after he abated John's suicide attempt. He did what he could for John, treating him much like he had Sherlock during his junkie days. He fed him, made sure he was clean and well rested, but also that he got out and enjoyed the fresh air. It helped Greg as well.

Greg assumed that this was when John realized that he loved Sherlock. He grieved like a widow, he felt he had no reason to carry on without the constant presence of the man who had changed his entire life, one who had helped him come to terms with his own adrenaline addiction. So combined with the grief, John Watson was feeling the uselessness of his pre-Sherlock life crash down on him like a tonne of bricks. It had to be overwhelming, not only the loss, but the significance of the time spent with Sherlock and the realizations about himself that came with it. But maybe Greg was wrong. Maybe John just cared about Sherlock as a friend, as a family member. He had said his piece and now it was up to John.

"Here. Let's talk about anything else. You see that last Arsenal game?" Greg asked, pointing to the screen on the wall. John was obviously relieved to move on for the time. They stayed a couple of hours and then parted ways. Greg never did ask any of the Holmes questions he wanted to, but he couldn't imagine it would have helped him any, not after that display from John. He was going to have to go by instinct.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Whitehall**

Mycroft paced his Whitehall office watching the grandfather clock loudly tick the seconds by, as if he didn't already dread the meeting he had planned tonight. It grated on him, driving a migraine straight behind his eyes. He had invited his parents to town, not telling them about Eurus and what had happened. Telling them in person was going to be difficult, but he knew it was the only way to do it. Sherlock had willingly agreed to be there to explain the situation and maybe even dissipate the anger that was sure to follow.

Sherlock showed up at the office around half eight PM. He was solemn as usual, but Mycroft detected something else was on his mind besides the mission at hand. He knew it was only a matter of time before he brought up the topic of Gregory and he steeled himself for the inevitable. He nodded when Sherlock came into the room and he sat down at his desk. He clasped his hands together and rested his chin on them, waiting for him to say anything regarding Gregory. Sherlock remained silent, instead closing his eyes and leaning against the wall.

Hours seemed to pass in the silence. The clock continued to tick loudly, pounding away the seconds and making Mycroft twitch in irritation. After only ten minutes, Anthea showed Mr. and Mrs. Holmes through the door and Mycroft stood to greet them.

"Mikey, what's going on here, we never meet at your office!" His mother questioned with concern and surprise in her voice. Mycroft rolled his eyes at the nickname. He wasn't going to correct her this time. He already had bad news to share with her and getting into a verbal duel over his preferred name was not going to make this confession any easier.

"Yeah, son, what is going on? Is there something wrong?" His father furrowed his brows in question. Mycroft gestured to a couple of chairs in front of his desk before sitting himself.

Sherlock came out from behind the heavy door and kissed his mother on both cheeks, lightly gripping her forearms. "Hello, mother."

Mycroft took a deep breath and exhaled with purpose, closing his eyes and steadying himself against the inevitable fight that was about to happen.

"I'll get straight to the point. This is about Eurus." His mother whipped her head around to see Sherlock's reaction of hearing his sister's name. A name he surely had forgotten since his childhood trauma. But his face remained stoic, his blue eyes cast down towards the floor.

His mother's chest started to heave as the memories of her daughter came flooding back. "You mean my daughter. Your sister. Who died years ago in a fire?" She shot at him. She already knew there was something coming. Her sons both looked at her with guilt in their eyes, a deep sorrow that she felt in her gut rose up until it became anger in her throat.

"She's alive," Sherlock said quietly.

"Alive? After all these years? How is that even possible?"

Despite his reservations, Mycroft explained the situation. He explained why he did what he did, he explained that it wasn't safe. He explained why visiting with her was a waste of time. It was feeling like a waste of his _own_ time, but it was family and if he couldn't do this, he didn't deserve anything. By the end of it, he was exhausted, but there were no more secrets about Eurus.

Mycroft put his head in his hands as Sherlock walked his parents out of the office to meet their awaiting car. It could have gone worse, it could have gone better though. He hadn't expected a warm reception given the topic. He had been surprised though. Sherlock had defended him, after all the lies he had told him, keeping Eurus and "Redbeard" and the associated memories from him. Mycroft felt the weight of it fall from his shoulders like treacle, heavy and thick. It was time to let it go. It was time to move on. It was time to let Sherlock let it go. There was nothing else to be done at this point.

Sherlock came back in the room, his face emotionless, but his hair a bit mussed from their goodbye hugs. "I'm sorry, Sherlock." Mycroft's face fell as he slumped into his chair. "Everything I have done has been to protect you. From harm caused by bad memories to harm caused by yourself. I've spent my life trying to protect you but all I've accomplished was making things worse. For you, for mummy and father, for myself even. I've put everyone at risk in the process. I'm-" Sherlock put up his hand to stop him.

"Don't." They sat in silence for a minute, Mycroft watching him from the chair, Sherlock standing at the closed door. Mycroft watched with baited breath. He knew this wasn't a typical conversation between them. It was a day for firsts, apparently. Suddenly, and probably because Mycroft was already on edge, Sherlock spun in a circle on his heel. " _I'm_ the grown up?!" He leaned towards Mycroft, his eyes wide and a hint of a smile on his lips. "Me?!" Mycroft's mouth opened and his eyes were questioning. Sherlock squinted and his lips curled into an evil, yet genuine smile. Then they both laughed. Sherlock slapped his thighs and sighed, tears threatening his crinkled eyes. "Me," he wheezed through laughs and pointed to himself.

"Thank you, brother mine. For defending me."

"Yes, well, sentiment and all." There was a heavy silence before Sherlock proclaimed rather loudly, "I'm not giving up on her. If she's secure, I'm not going to leave her to rot in that room. She won't be alone anymore." Sherlock had his hands in his pockets now, gazing at the floor as if he could see Eurus there, alone in a sterile room, illuminated by fluorescent lights overhead and grey stone walls. Mycroft watched him drift into his mind palace.

"It is what it is. If you want to continue a relationship with her, I won't stop you. I'll give you full access, but you understand the risks now. You know what can happen." Mycroft reached into his desk and pulled a security badge from within. "Please allow me to arrange the transport each time you go. It will be easier than commandeering a fishing boat each time." He smirked. Sherlock reached for the badge and put it directly into his pocket. "Speaking of fish," Mycroft hesitated. "Thank you for that as well."

"Ah," Sherlock grinned. "So I heard. I'm glad you got your goldfish, but why do you think I had anything to do with it?"

"I know you like to have your fingers in pies, as it were," Mycroft huffed at him.

"Mycroft, you are the only one who is obsessed with putting your fingers in pies." And with that, Sherlock spun on his heel, his coat flapping behind him and rushed out of the room.

Mycroft scowled at his fleeing back. He knew the jab was in jest, but that didn't make it any less of a sore spot for him. He stood up and looked at himself in the mirror, turning his body sideways and looking at his own profile. He thought about DI Lestrade before nodding slightly and rocking on his heels.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Billy's Corner Shop**

By Friday, Greg was getting anxious and it was starting to show. He was at a scene of what looked to be a simple robbery at a small corner shop. Sergeant Donovan was taking a statement from the owner, while Greg was going over the CCTV footage. Simple smash and dash, pretty standard stuff besides the cash value of the merchandise being reported was more along the line of a high end jewelry boutique. It was finally a chance to get out of the office for a bit.

The store was dingy, the boxes of Weetabix and Shreddies were probably from the early nineties judging by the layers of dust on them. The lino was cracked and there was dirt forgotten in the corners where feet had had no contact. The security system looked to be the only thing that was updated, which Greg assumed had to do with some other type of sale going on. The windows were covered in iron bars and the glass behind them was brown from years of neglect. Everything in the store looked to be at least ten years old. Greg grabbed the list of inventory that was supposedly stolen.

"You're really trying to claim that a..." He narrowed his eyes while he followed the line across the paper. "...a cassette tape, Bananarama's 'Ultra Violet', is worth...uh, _two hundred pounds_? Really?"

"It's a classic, mate. Vintage, innit?" The scrawny early thirty-something store owner shrugged his shoulders as he threw his hands out. Something was fishy and Greg wasn't buying it.

"Oh yeah? And you sell a lot of 'Beaps' brand audio ear buds for a hundred quid?" The kid laughed. Greg sighed. "Filmore!" Greg called out to a PC who was milling around the store entrance. "I need you to take a look around the back. Look for anything out of the ordinary, a hiding place, anything that looks like it was recently emptied."

The owner of the store looked panicked. His foot started to bounce on the floor and he began chewing on his fingernail like it contained the last bit of water in the middle of the Sahara. Greg took a step back and watched his reaction as PC Filmore started rooting around in the backroom. Filmore was pushing aside boxes on shelves, a hanger with what appeared to be a dirty overcoat belonging to the owner, and a old and falling apart radio/compact disc player. When Filmore reached a cabinet, the owner's foot stopped moving and his hand dropped from his mouth.

"There," Greg shouted, "It's in there. Or, not in there…anymore." Filmore turned and gave Greg a puzzled look. Greg waved him to continue the search, scoffing and shaking his head. When Filmore opened the cabinet, Greg had to jump on top of the owner to stop him from running out, tackling him to the ground with a loud _thud_.

"You really think your contents insurance will pay for your stolen drugs?" Greg said as he cuffed the owner after pulling him right side up. "Donovan, get SOCO to test that cabinet. And make sure the insurance company gets a full report of this."

*DING*

Greg's phone chimed. He pulled aside and checked it as Filmore escorted the owner outside by the arm.

"New Text From: M. Holmes

I'm sending a car to your flat at 6:15pm

to meet at the restaurant.

I hope that is acceptable?"

Greg grinned. _Acceptable?_ Even if it wasn't, he would never say so. He typed a quick message back.

"New Text Message To: M. Holmes

That is beyond acceptable. I

look forward to it."

"Something you care to share with the rest of the class?" Sally asked at the stupid grin he had on his face.

"Oh, uh, erm. No, it's just...no." Greg stammered. He tried to distract from his face by looking around the storeroom.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you have a hot date tonight. Who's the lucky lady, eh?" She teased him, elbowing him in the side gently.

"Ah..." He chuckled, "It's nothing, really." He had plenty of reason not to mention this to anyone, especially when it was technically a first date. _Was it a date?_ He never clarified that with Mycroft. "Get any CCTV footage from the camera across the street and see if you can get any more angles of this guy before he rounded the corner. Maybe we can get lucky and see him before he put the mask on. It'd be nice to get two perps for the price of one." He left the rest to his team and went back to the office. Now he would have to decide if he needed to wear something a bit more posh for this…date.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Whitehall/Downing St/Westminster**

Mycroft had already dispatched his team to make the necessary arrangements for Friday as early as Tuesday morning. He only had a short mental struggle in using his team to make personal arrangements, but since he had very little need for them to do so in the past, he justified this as a one-off. Anthea had stopped working on her phone long enough to glance at Mycroft sideways, before getting straight to making the dinner reservations and assigning the security team to do a sweep of the building and surrounding areas just prior to the arrival time of her boss. He only had to give her a cursory glance in order to keep her quiet.

He had an early start on Friday, between briefings on an evolving arms deal between a warring middle eastern country and Russia, and the inevitable appointment of a certain MP in just under a month, Mycroft had little time to think of his rendezvous with Gregory later that day. He was able to send a quick text to him during what was supposed to be a break in the day for lunch. Within fifteen minutes, he was ushered into the car to meet with the PM at Downing to discuss infuriating details regarding Brexit, and then took the short walk to Westminster for another series of talks regarding his specialty, security.

By half five pm, Mycroft informed Anthea that he was no longer taking work distractions, barring a bomb threat to the restaurant. She had already cleared his schedule and assigned a few other workers to field any calls or emails that came in, as needed, but the reminder made her double check that she had everything in order. When he arrived home, Mycroft made efficient use of the thirty minutes before he needed to leave for the restaurant. He showered, shaved, and dressed in a dark three-piece suit, complete with pocket watch and gold cufflinks. He checked himself one last time in the mirror and smoothed back his hair with a lick to his finger. He turned to the side and with a scowl, ran his hand over the softening middle of his abdomen. He made a mental note to increase his running time on the treadmill.

Mycroft had what he thought were no illusions about his looks. Since secondary, when he had started to gain his height and his weight began to shift, he had made every attempt to not revert back to the overweight child he once was. He didn't consider himself to be "sporty" but he had become affiliated with a few activities in university including fencing, cricket, and the occasional punting stint, as well as using the gym facilities during his sleepless nights. When the weather was nice, he always used the running track at night, lit only by the emergency lights angled outwards from the track. It was easier to use when there were no scrutinizing eyes watching him. But he didn't consider himself a good looking individual. Then again, looks weren't something he normally considered, whether in himself or anyone else.

In reality, his apprehension had nothing to do with his looks or his lack of a recent sexual history. He'd known Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade for almost 10 years now. He wasn't just attracted to him, he had actually grown to _like_ the silver-haired man. Yes, he had plenty of encounters in the past, both men and women, but he didn't particularly see himself in a relationship with any of them, which is why he never pursued one. With his job and taking care of his junkie little brother, not to mention having to keep close tabs on Sherrinford for fear that Eurus would break out or worse, there was no way a relationship would fit into his life. And even without all of the external pressures vying for his attention or his need to remain emotionless, he had created this Iceman he had now become.

Mycroft was not dispassionate or frigid, despite what everyone saw. And seeing Sherlock go through everything that Eurus had set up for him had Mycroft questioning his own life. Sherlock had kept his wits about him during the ordeal, but it was also no secret that his love ran deep for not only his family, but his friends as well. Having emotions like that didn't change what happened or what was going to happen. Eurus had used his emotions against him, made him squirm like a worm on a hook. But then again, it was Sherlock's compassion in the end that got them out of the mess. So caring was a double-edged sword. After all this time, it was Mycroft's turn to open the depths of himself to someone else.

The prospect was terrifying. And exciting. His encounters in the past had been short, sometimes even paid for. He even had individuals try to break down his emotional walls before. But he inevitably deduced their untrustworthy nature, or their various flaws that were completely unacceptable for his complicated life. If he didn't trust them with who and what his brother was, there was no way he could trust them with other details about his family that would eventually make their way into a mature relationship.

Gregory, on the other hand, was slowly introduced to these pieces of his life already, over stages. He had already shown longevity in his patient and nurturing care of Sherlock. He was a born protector, someone who followed their instincts, their "gut". He was, by all accounts, an all-around good man. And Mycroft was looking forward to getting to know the man under the badge, despite the anxiety he felt deep down.

Mycroft opened the front door to see the black sedan waiting for him. He climbed inside, gave his driver a nod, and they headed towards Notting Hill.


	7. Headless Horseman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg finally gets his dinner with Mycroft, Donovan pleads, and Sherlock does what he does best.
> 
> ""Alright, Inspector. You're looking for a white knight to fight the dragon for you?"  
> "I'd settle for a dark night, with those lovely hands of yours on me.""
> 
> .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to make the setting very realistic by using some real locations. Forgive any inaccuracies!

**The Ledbury**

At quarter six precisely, a sleek black sedan arrived at Greg's flat. Greg looked down at his clothing choice one last time, a pair of dark blue jeans and a light grey button-up shirt along with a dark blue blazer. He nodded once and splashed a little aftershave around his jaw before he realized that Mycroft would see he kept a couple days' worth of stubble. But it was the closest thing he had to cologne and it would have to do. He grabbed his jacket and keys, locked the front door and bounced down the steps to meet the driver who was holding the car door open for him.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" The driver inquired. Greg was pretty sure the driver was only giving him the courtesy of not knowing if he was the correct man. The driver was tall, probably just over six foot and weighing probably close to fifteen stone. But his voice was gentle, soothing even.

"Yes. Greg, please." Greg smiled and put his hand out. Even if this was an employee of Mycroft's, and therefore a government worker, and obviously a security guard judging by the gun in the holster underneath his jacket, it didn't mean he didn't deserve the same cordial courtesies that Greg gave everyone else.

"Yes, sir. I'm here to take you to The Ledbury to meet Mr. Holmes. Won't you get in?" He gestured toward the back seat of the car. Greg dropped his hand but kept his smile plastered to his face. _Maybe he was told to be hands-off?_ He slid into the back seat and the driver returned to the front and pulled into traffic.

"New Text Message to: M. Holmes

Your driver seems a bit antisocial…"

After a minute, Greg received a response.

"New Text Message From: M. Holmes

David is a professional, Gregory. But if you feel

So inclined to be personal, tell him that Mr.

Holmes says, 'At ease'"

Greg snorted, making David flinch a bit in the front seat. He used his phone to look up the restaurant during the drive.

Within twenty minutes, they arrived at The Ledbury. David got out and opened the car door for Greg.

"Well, David, thank you for the ride. It was a pleasure." Greg extended his hand again towards the large man. "It's okay, Mr. Holmes says, 'At ease.'" David's stoic face instantly broke into a smile and he met Greg's hand in a hearty handshake.

"It was a pleasure to drive you, sir. I hope to see you again soon. Please give Mr. Holmes my regards." Greg nodded at him and stood to look at the front of the restaurant. It wasn't too fanciful; it had neat and orderly landscaping of bright green bushes and an awning over the door that was simple. But the simplicity was deceiving, Notting Hill was a beautiful high end neighborhood and he knew this was a two Michelin Star restaurant.

Greg was greeted at the door and shown through the white main dining area. The white walls were offset by the dark brown floor to ceiling curtains framing the large windows. Candlelight highlighted each table setting and an installation of warm yellow bulbs dangling from cords lit up a wall opposite the windows. Greg was brought to a set of French doors, the glass covered by translucent fabric, giving the room behind privacy without making it too closed off.

The concierge opened the door with a flourish and inside was a simple square table with a white table cloth. A single candle was in the middle and behind the table were more glass French doors leading to a garden filled with lights. Greg's heart skipped a beat as he looked at the man standing up from the table. Mycroft wore his traditional three-piece suit, this one in a dark navy blue, accented with a red tie and gold pocket watch. His confident smile started to falter as Greg strode closer to him. He suddenly looked confused and quickly glanced around, waving his hand towards the chair opposite him.

"Thank you for coming, Gregory. Ah, please, have a seat…" Mycroft was about to sit down but Greg strode confidently up to him and put his arms around him. _He has no idea how to act on a date._ "Ohhff." Mycroft was caught off guard and he let the hug take his breath away, literally. Greg held him for a long second, taking in his scent. He had to release him before the rest of his body caught up with his brain, remembering that same smell as he held him through the night. Greg planted a chaste kiss on Mycroft's freshly shaven cheek before pulling away and sitting in the chair across the table.

Mycroft took a moment before he sat down, his cheeks a tender shade of pink.

"I've never been here before, but I heard the food is to die for. Do we get menus?" Greg looked around the table but came up empty-handed.

"Actually, they have a tasting menu tonight, complete with complimentary drink pairings, I hope that's ok. Any food restrictions, allergies, or dislikes?" Mycroft asked as a waitress came in carrying a pitcher of water and two glasses.

"Ah, no, I trust your culinary judgement." Greg smiled and grabbed his glass of water after the waitress poured. He was desperate to wet his parched throat. He was trying to keep his cool, but it wasn't as easy as he thought. He could see the glistening of traces of sweat along Mycroft's hairline and suddenly, it felt like a battle of 'who can look the most nonchalant'. _This is getting ridiculous, we're grown men behind closed doors. We shouldn't have to act like teenagers caught snogging in bed._

Greg tried to stifle a laugh, but it came forth like a snort. Mycroft's eyes widened in surprise, which only made Greg's laugh come harder and faster.

"Gregory?" Mycroft's spine stiffened and he looked around the room nervously.

"I'm sorry, this… is just… ridiculous!" Greg struggled between laughs and gasped to get the words out. Mycroft's lips pulled into a straight line and he pulled his shoulders back in defense.

"I didn't realize that you would find this so amusing, Inspector. If I had thought you didn't feel the same about what was going on here, I would never have pursued dinner…" He started to stand up, throwing his napkin to the table in a huff.

"No, wait, no!" Greg's laughter tapered off as he reached over and grabbed Mycroft's wrist. Mycroft instantly stiffened, trying to contain the last shreds of his dignity. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean _this."_ He gestured vaguely with his other hand. "I meant…the awkwardness. We don't have to be so shy around each other, for Christ's sake, we're not strangers." Mycroft's face relaxed, just fractionally, but his body loosened in Greg's grasp. "Please, sit back down, I'll behave." Mycroft thought for a second but sat back in the chair. Greg did not release his wrist, but instead, loosened his grip and turned his hand to trail his fingers over Mycroft's upturned palm. "Your palms are sweating, your cheeks are flushed and you haven't fully looked me in the eye until I started laughing. I know because I'm doing the same thing." This time, it was Mycroft who laughed.

"Yes, you are correct, Gregory. It's been a long time since I have had veridical feelings for another, beyond the basic human needs, of course. I find myself inexplicably shaken by your presence, in its new familiarity. I'm not quite sure how to conduct myself around you now." His grey eyes lost all of the storm behind them, now they were more like a cloudy day, dampened by his admission.

"I was married for fourteen years. I haven't been with a bloke for almost twenty. And I've had _indecent_ thoughts about you for the last ten. So I don't know what the hell I'm doing, but I'm doing it, yeah? Now here we are in this posh restaurant, and we're going to have a good time, eh?" He had stopped caressing Mycroft's palm and he had put his thumb in the middle, applying the smallest amount of pressure to get his point across. Mycroft looked down at their hands finally and nodded.

"Yes, you make an irrefutable argument for your case, _Detective Inspector."_

"Greg."

"Gregory." Mycroft smiled. A real smile. It squinted his eyes and pulled his lips to his ears. It was salacious. Greg wanted to grab him by the sides of his face, kiss him until their lips bled and Mycroft squirmed for relief in his arms, grinding for friction against him. He shook his head to clear the thoughts. They had to at least get through dinner first.

As the courses were brought in one by one, their conversation came easier and easier. Greg was curious about Mycroft's manor house and some of the art he had around the place. Mycroft wanted to know about Greg's reluctance to apply for the Detective Chief Inspector position that he was in line to get. They talked a bit about family, Greg's parents in France and Mycroft's parents just a couple hours' drive from London.

By the time their dessert plates arrived, they were more at ease, laughing together and occasionally touching hands on the table. Mycroft's hands were delicate, agile, pale, and nimble. They slid between his own rough, stubby, chewed on digits, feeling the lines of his palm, the hair on his knuckles, and ran over the ragged edges of his nails. They searched while Greg talked and Mycroft listened with his ears and read with his fingertips, gaining simultaneous information.

The dessert was a rich four layer chocolate cake that made Mycroft's eyes wide. It was a piece for them to share, but Greg could already tell he was going to get the short end of the stick on this deal.

"Have a bit of a sweet tooth, eh?" Greg smiled and pushed the plate closer to Mycroft.

"I'll admit, it has been my one constant weakness. It's what keeps me going back to the treadmill everyday." He picked up his fork and took a large bite, licking ganache from his lip where the piece didn't quite fit into his mouth.

"Wait, you run? I run too, but I'm a bit of a naturalist." Mycroft raised his eyebrows towards his hairline. "Not like that, I just like to run outdoors, in the fresh air. It helps me unwind after a long day. I don't get as much scene time as I used to, but I like to stay in shape." Greg watched him take another bite of the cake, jealous of the way his tongue darted to catch it all, the way his lips curved around the fork. "Ok, you're really selling that cake, I'm going to need a bite."

Mycroft forked another piece and reached across the table to offer it to Greg. Greg grabbed Mycroft's wrist firmly, startling him, then pulled the fork closer to his face. He opened his mouth and took the bite, letting his lips linger on the fork a bit longer than necessary. Mycroft's pupils went wide and his chest heaved watching him. His mouth opened slightly and Greg stared into his eyes, electric and silver, his own reflection staring back.

Their silence was broken by a mobile ring. Mycroft immediately went dark and reached into his pocket, only to find it wasn't his ringing. Greg watched and realized with a tinge of regret that it was his and fished it out. It was Donovan. He silenced it.

"Work, but I'm off for the next couple of days, they can handle it." He said, apologetically. He placed it back in his pocket. Within seconds, it started again and when he pulled it out, it was Donovan again. "It might be an emergency." He sighed. "Lestrade."

"Sir, I'm sorry to bother you but we need you on scene. We've got a…well, an almost decapitated vic."

"Ah, just in time to ruin my dinner, thanks for that." He scowled. "Alright, text me the address." He rung off and put the mobile back in his pocket.

"Another gruesome murder, Inspector?" Mycroft wistfully asked from across the table. In the heat of the moment, Greg had almost forgotten where he was. He scrubbed his hand over his face.

"Yeah, sorry. They found a body and I'm needed. I guess they can't handle it on their own yet. When can I see you again?" Greg was putting on his jacket again.

"I'm afraid I'll be indisposed for a few days. I have some business to attend to that will take some face time outside the country."

"Well, you can let me know when you return, yeah? I'm not finished with you yet." Greg gave him a smirk. There was a brief hesitation in Mycroft's eyes and Greg hoped he didn't scare him off.

"Perhaps we have been a bit ambitious with our endeavors, Gregory. Our professions seem to want to keep us apart."

"Perhaps it's worth fighting for." Greg stared into his eyes, challenging him. His pulse was racing in his ears and he held his breath while Mycroft processed this. Mycroft wasn't the kind of person who liked, or even admitted to being wrong, but he also didn't seem like the person to back down from a challenge.

"Alright, Inspector. You're looking for a _white knight_ to fight the dragon for you?" Mycroft got up out of his seat and pulled his jacket down by the hem, raising his chin. Greg took a step closer to him and leaned into his ear.

"I'd settle for a dark night, with those lovely hands of yours on me." Before Mycroft could even respond, Greg reached up and cupped his face. He pressed his lips to Mycroft's, hard and unrelenting until Mycroft softened, opening just enough to let Greg explore. Before Mycroft's hand could reach Greg's hair, Greg's mobile beeped with the details and address for the case. "Sorry, love. If I don't hear from you in a few days, I'll assume the worst, so please, call me?" Mycroft could only nod.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Hyde Park Stables**

Greg's taxi pulled up to the address he was given, a quaint riding stable near Hyde park. The smell of hay, leather, and horse manure hit his lungs like a brick wall as soon as he stepped out of the taxi. He wrinkled his nose and moved towards the building that the police cars and tape had already surrounded. The majority of the officers were inside the stable, mulling around, taking pictures, interviewing staff and taking bags of evidence. He spotted Donovan talking with a woman near the opposite side of the barn-like stable building. She turned when she saw him, an instant regretful look on her face. She led the woman towards Greg across the barn.

"Sir, this is Linda Chetham, she is the owner of the stables. She found the victim about an hour ago." The woman was white as a sheet, fiddling with her hands in front of her. Her loose brown hair covered her red spotty face, and her eyes were bloodshot from crying.

"Hello, Ms. Chetham, I'm very sorry for your loss. Were you close with….?"

"Daniel Turner, he was a good friend of mine. I've known him for 6 years." She sniffled and rubbed her nose. "He took care of the horses here, he was the stable manager. He was…finishing up giving the horses their hay for the night and checking the water troughs. I came in to talk to him about a new filly that's arriving next week. And then I….I…I found him." She burst into choking sobs, covering her face with her hands.

"Whoa, it's ok, it's alright." Greg wrapped his arms around her and gestured to a young PC about ten feet away. "Hardwicke, get Ms. Chetham here to the ambulance, please." He passed her off to the blonde PC who gently replaced Greg's arms with her own and brought the grieving woman towards the red and blue lights.

"Show me what's going on," he told Donovan. She walked him to the victim, laying face-down inside a horse stall amidst the wood chips and loose hay. The man was in his late thirties or early forties, his sandy blonde hair had dried manure in the back but was plastered to the front in the pool of blood surrounding him mid-torso to crown. His plaid shirt and blue jeans were covered in wood chips and smears of manure. The most striking feature, of course, was his neck. His head was three-quarters of the way off of his body, severed straight across his Adam's apple and hanging on by a mass of muscle and a thin strip of skin.

"Jesus Christ, really?" He put one hand on his hip and rubbed the bridge of his nose with the other. "This is just…just great. We need this done quick. I'm calling in the cavalry."

"No sir, please! I'll work through the night if I have to, just don't call him in." Donovan pleaded.

"Too late." Greg had his phone to his ear and waited for Sherlock to answer.

"Lestrade." Sherlock answered the phone, sounding a bit out of breath. Greg ignored it.

"Do you want to see a body?"

"While I'm flattered, Lestrade, I don't think you're really my type." Greg could hear the smug smirk on his face through the line.

"Oh, ha ha, very funny. I'll send you the address, you'll enjoy this one." Lestrade hung up and texted the address to Sherlock, then headed over to the SOCO team for details.

"We just set up the boundary ten meters from the body, we're still looking for the murder weapon." The officer was still in his white Tyvek coveralls but had pulled down his mask to speak to the DI. "We also took trace evidence from the victims hands. Hopefully, we can find the weapon and get prints off it."

"Thanks, keep up the good work." Greg patted his jacket, looking for his cigarettes and remembered that he left his emergency pack in his car, which he didn't have with him. He decided that his best course of action was to pace around the outside of the barn where he didn't have to see the body, even if he looked in.

Sherlock and John showed up not too long after, before Greg's legs began to cramp from the pacing. They exited the taxi, looking a bit disheveled and flushed. Greg smirked. He hoped his conversation with John earlier in the week had meant John had finally taken the leap. If so, it meant that his time slot on the office pool was the winner. It was up to fifteen hundred pounds now.

Greg opened his mouth to rib them about it, but before he could get the first syllable out, Sherlock unfolded his fingers and put his hand up, creating a physical barrier between them.

"No," was all Sherlock said before his coattails flew past and disappeared straight into the barn.

"Don't start," John said, following right behind Sherlock. His voice had an edge but the smile on his face betrayed him. He shook his head at Greg's incredulous look.

"Fine, but you're going to cough it up after a few pints so you better get your story straight." Greg smiled at him and followed the detective train they made.

When they reached the body, Sherlock smiled like a kid on Christmas morning. John grimaced at him and smacked Sherlock in the arm, making Sherlock clear his throat and compose his face to one of passivity. He pulled out his sliding portable magnifying glass and started looking at the body. After a minute, he put it away and started what looked like a dance around the body, stepping over him in a slow movement.

"What the hell are you doing?" Greg asked, both hands on his hips. _Why do I even bring him on?_ He looked at John who had his arms crossed against his chest, but he only shrugged and smiled proudly. Obviously, John was arse-over-tits in love right now.

"I am reenacting the struggle that happened before he was attacked with the axe." Sherlock then raised both hands as if gripping an invisible axe and swung hard. He looked to the left and shook his head. Then he swung again but angled to the left and looked up and to the right this time. Tiptoeing over the body, he made his way to a wooden ladder leading to a loft and after he ascended, he looked around the bales of hay. After five seconds, he raised a bloody axe above his head and let out what could only be described as a howl.

"Oh Jesus. Can you put a leash on him, please? I don't know why I even bother." Greg shook his head, but deep down, he loved this too. His team would have found the axe that same night, but he knew Sherlock would be able to find the motive and the killer in short order too.

"The Headless Horseman. " John announced.


	8. Special Delivery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wraps up the Headless Horseman case, John settles into domestic calm, Sherlock pines.
> 
> "He could feel John's hands hovering in the air above him before he finally gave in and placed one hand directly on Sherlock's head. Then he started massaging the curls gently and petting him like a cat. If he had the ability, Sherlock would have purred. But he didn't, so he closed his eyes and let out a soft sounding rumble in his throat in appreciation."
> 
> .

**Hyde Park Stables**

John smiled smugly. He really did feel witty when he thought of his new blog entry on the case. He watched Sherlock climb down the stairs and hand the axe to a SOCO team member, making his way to the stall across from where the body was. He spoke softly, his words indiscernible, to the horse occupying it and then moved to place his hand on its flank.

"Lestrade, have your team check the empty stall next to this, shaking out the straw and chips. I'm sure you'll find a usb toggle." Sherlock removed the gloves he had on and started to walk away.

"WAIT!" Greg yelled at the same time as John smiled and said, "Amazing." Greg turned to give a stern look at John. "Tell me why I'm doing that," he said to Sherlock.

"Because you get to do the legwork today." Sherlock smiled, surely knowing what Greg meant. John snickered, he really couldn't help himself. He loved to watch Sherlock work, his mind a well oiled machine, and John watching the wheels turn, even if he had no idea how they all fit together.

"Don't be a prat, I mean how do you know this?" Greg put his hands on his hips and did his best angry father impression.

Sherlock's chest heaved with a deep sigh.

"The victim and his assailant had an argument, after a brief struggle, the assailant grabbed the nearest weapon, a recently sharpened axe. The victim sharpened it himself just today, judging by the small metal shavings on his sleeve and front. The victim was gripping tight a small plastic object, a common USB toggle, which is evident by the indent in his palm. The assailant struck the victim, severing his head, spare a few muscles and a bit of skin. He then searched the body and underneath for the USB, getting blood on his hands, but did not find it. He then went to the stall across the way, touching the horse on the side, leaving a small smear of blood, but again came up empty. He gave up and ran when Ms. Chetham showed up. If he had just checked the next empty stall, he would have found it." John's smile was broad and bright. Listening to the logic made it sound easy. Why hadn't he noticed all of this? "The real question you should be asking, Grant, is 'what's on the USB drive?' I believe you'll find information regarding the victim's recent illegal gambling ring."

"Outstanding." John whispered. "Wait, gambling ring?" John raised an eyebrow.

"On the board by the tack stand. The paper with the numbers and names. Classic shorthand for gamblers. I assume the assailant was owed quite a bit of winnings which the victim didn't want to pay." Sherlock waved towards a corkboard on the wall with receipts, bulletins, and ads, dismissing it as he pulled off his latex gloves. "Come, John. Lestrade can handle the rest."

John smiled proudly and sauntered off after Sherlock towards the road to catch a cab. Of course, the cab was already there when John showed up. They slid in and Sherlock gave the driver their address. John looked over at Sherlock. His eyes were squinting and his smile, though tight lipped, drew across his entire face. He was pleased with himself, and the case wasn't even complicated to figure out. He turned to John and reached out his hand, resting it on John's knee.

"Did you see the look on Lestrade's face? Priceless." John barely heard him. He was staring at the long fingers now gripping his knee. His heart was racing. He had no idea if Sherlock even knew the effect he had on him. John could hear the laughter from Sherlock die out and when he looked up, Sherlock was staring at him with a straight face. John chuckled nervously. "Are you alright, John?" He tightened his grip further on John's knee.

"Ah, ha ha, yes…mmm." John cleared his throat, smiling. Sherlock smiled back and loosened his grip, but he kept his hand where it was. John didn't know how to proceed. As he saw it, he had three options. He could ask Sherlock what he was doing and have him remove his hand. But did he want that? Did he want him to remove it? If he didn't, did he want to risk pointing it out so that he removed it without a discussion? He could ignore it, which would almost guarantee that Sherlock ignored it too and left it where it was. Or, at the risk of everything, he could place his own hand on top of Sherlock's. That was the biggest risk of all. He wanted to put his hand on Sherlock's. He knew that. But he needed to know for sure. He needed to know if this was intentional or just a slip.

He decided to do nothing. He was resolute in this. It was the right thing to do right now. They were both doing what they wanted, which made it an easy decision. John couldn't think clearly after that. Sherlock continued to mumble about the crime scene, but John just smiled and nodded along. When the cab made a sudden stop, John lurched forward against the seat belt and unconsciously reached for Sherlock's hand on his knee. He slipped his fingers around to Sherlock's palm and gripped hard. The skin was cold and soft, his knuckles hard protuberances against John's palm.

Well, it's done now.

John gave an awkward smile and started to pull his hand away but Sherlock closed his hand, encasing John's fingers in his own, and preventing him from moving it. When John looked back up, Sherlock shook his head, then went back to looking out the window.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**John's Flat**

John had finished up feeding Rosie dinner and he had set her down to play on the floor. The coffee table was pushed to the side to allow space for her toys and play mat. She was pushing on the light-up mat, giggling and chattering as usual. Sherlock was lounging on the sofa, his shoes kicked off over the arm when his feet got too warm. Without his chemistry and lab equipment, he wanted to shoot the walls. But John had hid the gun somewhere Sherlock couldn't find, though he had searched the whole house the previous night while John was asleep. 221B was nearly ready so if he could just hold out for a couple more days, he could start assembling his new lab in 221C. He would have to bribe Molly or some of the interns to acquire some more equipment for his new lab, as well as new parts to start some experiments. That should be easy enough, though the thought of asking Molly for a favor seemed like a dreaded task in itself.

John came into the room with a large bowl of popcorn in his hand and grabbed the telly remote from the side table. He stood at the end of the sofa where Sherlock's feet rested and stared at him until Sherlock relented and pulled his legs in towards his body, allowing him room to sit down. John plunked himself down and turned on the telly to find something to watch. He flipped from channel to channel, passing by a few period shows, some newscasters and a reality show about cooking. He landed on a crime drama with a satisfied "humph". The protagonist was dull, uninformed and his deductions were trivial. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Ugh, boring." He sat up and hunched his shoulders. He looked over at John who was shoving fistfuls of popcorn into his open gob. It looked ridiculous but Sherlock smiled at it. It was endearing actually. He suddenly wanted to be close to John, to smell the butter on him and taste the salt on his lips. He decided that getting that close may be too much for John, so he settled with rotating his body and angling his head towards John's lap. He used his head like a battering ram and pushed the bowl of popcorn to the side, replacing it with his mop of hair.

"Oh!" John let out a squeal, reminiscent of a child encountering a mouse, but he stayed where he was. Sherlock settled in with his face towards the telly. He didn't care what was on, he just liked being near John, feeling his warmth on his face and smelling the laundry soap on his clothes. He could feel John's hands hovering in the air above him before he finally gave in and placed one hand directly on Sherlock's head. Then he started massaging the curls gently and petting him like a cat. If he had the ability, Sherlock would have purred. But he didn't, so he closed his eyes and let out a soft sounding rumble in his throat in appreciation. He heard a chuckle from up above so he did it again. With the commotion of his move, Rosie had turned to look at them. She had crawled towards the couch and pulled herself to stand at the edge of the sofa. She had a wide cheeky smile on her face.

"Seep" She gurgled and pointed to Sherlock. Sherlock smiled back, knowing exactly what she wanted.

"Okay, little Bee." He pulled her up to sit in front of his chest and she immediately laid parallel to him, looking towards the telly as well. He pulled her into his chest and cuddled her. She was a curious little person. She was endlessly fascinating and her sweet little smile mimicked John's so perfectly, she was hard to resist. He could never say no to her, and he didn't want to either. John may be her father, but Sherlock felt entirely possessed by her. He would do anything to protect her, anything to keep her happy. The same way he felt about John. John had stopped moving, presumably shocked by the development.

"Did she just say her first word? And how did you know what she wanted?"

"Because simple creatures like simple comforts, John." Sherlock stated. That should be something that John knew well. He was a very simple creature. But he was Sherlock's simple creature. "And I would have no idea if it's her first, but it was definitely 'sleep'. Now shush and watch your television program." He hid his smile in John's lap. John hesitated a moment before placing his hand back into Sherlock's hair, making him purr a little again. Then he placed the bowl of popcorn on the side table and switched hands, placing one on Sherlock and the other on Rosie, gently caressing both of their heads.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock and Rosie took no time in falling asleep with John's hands on them. He marveled at the wonders on the sofa next to him. Sherlock had been like a tame cat, craving affection and touch. If he wasn't careful, John was going to have two needy geniuses begging for his attention. He smiled at the thought. It was stupid to even think it was a problem. This was the opposite of a problem. Except, it was hard for him to think such happy thoughts in the home he shared with Mary. Her presence still felt fresh in these walls, even though she had been gone for months. Her face watched him from pictures around the place, happy pictures that reminded him of what he lost. Happy pictures that also reminded him of her lies and deceit. Happy pictures that reminded him of his own lies and deceit.

Knowing now what he didn't know then made everything more complicated. The only woman that had enticed him during his marital bliss happened to be the imposturous sister of Sherlock. She had had his same blue eyes and beautiful smile. She had the same shy demeanor that Sherlock gets when he wants something. She had lured him in by being the female version of Sherlock. He only saw it after the fact, something which sat heavy in his stomach. She had in fact tricked him twice. When she acted as his new therapist, she had taken advantage of his emotional state after Mary's death. It made him sick to think about it all, the fact that he even thought to stray ate him away from the inside. He didn't understand it. He was happy with Mary, but not as happy as he had been before Mary. Before Sherlock had "died". He was glad he could be here now. With Sherlock again.

He was really curious about Greg though. Mycroft wasn't someone he considered to be a top market grab. To each his own, really, but still. Mycroft Holmes? To be fair, Mycroft had shown some heart during their stint with Eurus, but John assumed it was the guilt for all the terrible things he had done which led Moriarty to Sherlock. But if he had guilt, then he had to be a somewhat good guy, right? He couldn't even imagine what it would be like to see Mycroft let loose for a bit. He was more rigid than a stick in the mud. Did the guy even wear jeans? He couldn't imagine the conversations Greg and Mycroft had. But then again, he refused to think of them when they weren't talking. At least Sherlock smiled. He smiled a lot, in fact, even when it was completely inappropriate, which was at least half of the time. That was part of his charm.

He was rather charming, with his child-like wonder at certain things, and his complete lack of restraint. The enthusiasm was infectious, which is one of the reasons John had fallen for the lifestyle. His giddy excitement over an interesting case, the first case John helped with. At the time, John thought he was rude, self-centered, and brilliant. Bloody brilliant. And he was exciting. John had immediately been running around town after a suspect in a cab. His limp was gone and he was smiling. It was the best day of his life. Well, besides his wedding day and the birth of his daughter. But the day he met Sherlock, he was given a reason to live, a purpose in life after his military career ended. He wondered if Mycroft had the same effect for Greg. Or was it more of the reward? The reward of love given freely from someone who was normally so reserved with his feelings. Mycroft was not known for his outward affections, but John had learned that he cared deeply for his brother. That probably translated well for a romantic relationship.

The reward of Sherlock's love would definitely be worth the challenges he presented on a daily basis. The fits he threw, the rude and embarrassing comments. They were all ridiculous challenges that John had to deal with. But this, this moment right now made it worth it. He stroked the black mop of curls in his lap, a lazy smile on his face. It felt natural yet he had never been this close to Sherlock in this manner before. He never laid his hands on him in this way before. He had wanted to, plenty of times in the past, though usually he pushed those feelings aside in assuming they were popping up due to his lack of physical relationships. He was just feeling needy, that's all. But now, after everything that they had been through, after everything they had said to each other, he felt a much stronger bond with him. When he had broken down in front of Sherlock in regards to his guilt over flirting with another woman, he had told Sherlock to make a move because our time here is short. He meant Irene, and even Sherlock couldn't be dense enough to not realize that. But his reaction was to hold John, comfort him when he grieved. He had no idea if Sherlock took his advice, he was always secretive when it came to his feelings.

What could he deduce about Sherlock's heart? He really had no idea. Was Irene still a part of his life? He couldn't think of her as a threat, they weren't a couple. Even though Irene said they were. He loved Sherlock, there was no doubt in that. He would do anything for him. And Rosie adored him. She would seek him out every chance she got now that they were living together. She crawled to him, reached for him, even cried for him, and now she was using her first word to communicate with him. He could be a little jealous, but he wasn't. He was relieved. He had been worried that since he had kept Sherlock at arms' length after Mary's death, Rosie wouldn't recognize him anymore.

So Rosie loved him, Mary was gone and still approved, and John knew he loved him. But what could he deduce about Sherlock? He liked simple comforts at times. He was protective, even possessive at times with John. But that was more than likely his childish feelings and nothing more. Mycroft obviously knew that there was a heart inside Sherlock. He had to know that Sherlock cared for someone at some time. Sherlock spent his whole life searching for the friend that Eurus stole from him.

It was troublesome thinking of Victor Trevor. John hoped that his friendship with Sherlock wasn't some surrogate to replace what he had lost at such a young age. He supposed that his need to find the truth in every mystery came from that trauma. It was heartbreaking. He stroked Sherlock's temple, just a brush of his fingers and Sherlock moaned a little. It gave John a jolt through his body.

He needed to stop this now before there was no turning back. He placed both hands under Sherlock's head and raised it an inch to slide his body out from under it. Once out from the weight, he gently placed his head back down and onto the sofa. Little Rosie was tucked sweetly under Sherlock's arm, completely succumbed to the silence of a deep sleep. Her bottom lip was pushed into a pout and her little blonde curls tumbled over her forehead. She looked like a blonde version of Sherlock. For a second, John thought how funny it was that she looked like a combination of both him and Sherlock.

He reached down and slid her out of Sherlock's grip, tucking her into his chest. He gently rubbed her back and brought her up to her room, setting her in the cot. Most of her things were packed to go to 221B any day now. Sherlock had purchased a few things for her as well. At least, he assumed it was Sherlock. There were a few bee themed items around the flat now that weren't there previously. John smiled thinking about the honey bee decorated bedclothes for the cot and the hive-shaped lamp that were in his room at 221B. They were precious, something you would purchase at a baby store. He tried to imagine Sherlock walking through the aisles of baby toys and supplies, but he couldn't complete the image. John turned on the baby monitor and went back to the living room.

Sherlock was still fast asleep on the sofa so he put his hand on his shoulder and gently shook him. The only result was the vibrating of the soft black curls.

"Sherlock?" John tried. "Sherlock, wake up and go to sleep."

"I _am_ asleep, John. You're not making any sense." Sherlock replied, confused.

"I mean, you should go to your bed." John tried to clarify.

"Hmm." John wasn't satisfied that he completed the task he had set for himself, but he figured he did all he could. He turned off the lights, checked the front door lock and went to his bedroom.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The dust was thick in the air, choking him. The smell of burnt hair and gunfire permeated every inch of his person, making him gag. The ringing in his ears cut out all sounds while the people around him ran in a panic. His heart was racing as he tried to figure out where he was and what he was meant to do.

"Get that man, Captain! He needs the infirmary!" To his left lay a body in white lace. He could see the red staining the front before he turned her over. Mary looked at him with anger in her eyes, her hand clutching a gushing wound on her chest, the blood seeping out between her fingers. John fell back on his heels. The heat was stifling and the sweat and tears mingled on his face.

"You did this, John. You shot me in the heart." Her face twisted into a snarl before he could respond. The white and red dress quietly faded to a dark blue suit of trousers and jacket.

"No, I love you. I've always loved you." John sank to his knees as he whispered it. He ran his fingers under the lapel of the jacket, the flesh under the clothes changing to the body of a man. The collar of the white shirt underneath was red and Mary's blonde hair darkened to brown and her features were replaced by Sherlock's. He lay with his head on the pavement, the pool of blood around his head like a halo. "I've always loved you," he whispered again. John stroked his hair, pushing the blood-matted strands off of his forehead.

"Please don't leave me again. Not again," John pleaded. But it was no longer Sherlock. It was a soldier, his leg severed from his body, bleeding out on the desert sand. The sun blinded him and he reached his arm across his face to shield it. Explosions sounded behind him before the gunfire started and he had an excruciating pain in his shoulder that knocked him back. John grabbed his shoulder and looked around to see bodies, a few brothers in arms and some civilians, broken, bloodied, and gone. He cried out into the dust, not able to hear his own voice, but felt it through his bones in the absence of sound.

He woke, gasping and sweating with a burning hand on his bare chest. It slid an inch, smearing the sickness in its wake. His throat was raw and his shoulder ached.

"It's ok, John. You're having a nightmare," Sherlock's soothing voice cooed at him. John put his hand on top of Sherlock's, sitting up and panting. The light of the telly bathed them both in a dull glow, and John could see the concern on Sherlock's face, the tightness in his jaw. John swallowed hard and took a deep breath.

"I'm alright. I'm alright." John dropped his hand and threw his legs over the side of the bed, his lack of pyjamas not bothering him at this time of night. Sherlock took a step back and reached for the glass of water on John's side table. He handed it to John who took it willingly. He didn't want Sherlock to see him like this; out-of-sorts over a bad dream. He was supposed to be the strong one, the dependable soldier. After a few gulps, John put it back on the table and hung his head as he regained his composure. "Thank you, Sherlock. It's alright now." He waved his hand as if to summon him to leave, but Sherlock stayed where he was, seemingly teetering between following orders and holding his ground.

After a tense moment, he walked to the telly and turned it off, then casually climbed into the other side of the bed and laid on his back.

"Sherlock...?" John inquired into the darkness. But he received no answer. John sighed and pulled his feet back onto the bed. He pulled the blanket up around his shoulders and curled away from Sherlock on his side. "Goodnight, Sherlock. And thank you," he whispered.

"Sweet dreams, John." The whispered reply came from the other side of the bed. Somehow, John was comforted by the presence. He closed his eyes and drifted into a dreamless sleep within moments.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

John woke to the musical notes of giggling from the baby monitor on the side table. The deep baritone voice of his flatmate rumbled in a sing-song manner, followed by more giggles. He listened for a minute, smiling to himself. They really were adorable together. It made his heart clench listening to them, but he didn't want to interrupt. He waited until he could hear footfalls walking away from the monitor and then on the steps coming down the stairs.

"You two are up early, I see." John met them at the base of the stairs. Rosie was changed into a pink frock with ruffles and Sherlock had a wide but tired grin on his face. "Diaper?" John asked.

"All changed and ready for breakfast," Sherlock confirmed. He bounced the laughing girl in his arms then handed her over to John. She hugged John's neck affectionately.

"Da!" Rosie yelled, bringing tears to John's eyes.

"She said my name!" He exclaimed. "She's never said 'da' before!" He couldn't contain his smile and it seemed to be infectious. Sherlock returned the smile at them. John brought her to the kitchen and sat her down in her chair. Sherlock plopped down on the chair next to her and waited for John to make and deliver his cup of tea.

"The babysitter will be here soon. We got a few things left to go over at the flat and then it should be ready, yeah?" John asked, putting the kettle on.

"Just a few finishing touches. Then you'll move in?" Sherlock asked hopefully.

"Yes, Sherlock. I already agreed. I have someone coming to look at my place to let it out tomorrow. I've got most of Rosie's things packed and just a bit more of my own things." John poured the water that was ready and set a cup in front of Sherlock. "You look tired, didn't you sleep?" Sherlock shrugged. John wondered if he had watched him sleep all night, or if it was because he hadn't had a case for awhile. He reached over for his laptop and put it in front of Sherlock, turning it on. "Pick one."

"What?" Sherlock looked confused at the screen in front of him.

"Pick a case. You need to get out of your head."

They were silent as John made their breakfasts. He hoped that Sherlock would get some rest once they moved back into the flat. This was usually the start of his manic depressive moods and it was no state to bring in a baby. He could handle most anything that Sherlock did, but his moods could create a hazardous environment. He set a plate of toast and jam in front of Sherlock and the porridge and eggs in front of Rosie before setting into his own toast. There were plenty of simple cases that they could work, plenty of people with their own mysteries that Sherlock could solve.

_Turns out it's not just Sherlock who's ready to get back to work._

"Please tell me you found something." Sherlock scanned the emails, idly eating his toast. He hummed a bit but didn't answer. Rosie was chattering to her eggs, picking at them with her stubby little fingers.

"Miss Watson, your eggs are not sentient beings. You need to eat, like this." Sherlock picked up a piece of egg with his fingers and put it in his mouth. She reached up and whined a bit, so he picked another piece up and placed it in her open mouth. She smiled and chattered at him while she chewed, bouncing a bit in her seat. When she picked up another piece on her own, he smiled in approval. "Exactly, little bee. You need fuel for your frontal lobe so you can increase your intelligence and problem solving, then you can help me choose cases. Then one day, you can help me solve them, little Watson." She giggled at him again and took another bite of her eggs.

John stared at them. Did he really approve of Rosie solving cases with Sherlock? Moving back in with Sherlock did guarantee that they would continue their case work, and at some point, Rosie would be old enough to know what's going on. The inevitability had completely bypassed him until now. And what happens when she needs her own room? Are they going to move out at some point? They would need to. He didn't want to think about it right now, it would be a few years at least before they really needed to.

The babysitter came by not too long after to pick up Rosie. John had been trying to find someone whom he liked as much as Molly, but he was starting to feel like his standards were impossibly high. He wanted someone kind and gentle, who would defend Rosie with their life. What he wanted was to never let her go. John walked them to her car, helping her with the bag of baby supplies and kissing his daughter as he buckled her in the car seat. Sherlock watched from the doorway, his arms folded protectively over his chest, as if he held her still.

As John approached the front door, Sherlock was bent over, reaching for something on the top step. He paced around it, checking it before gently picking it up and looking at the top.

"What's that?" John asked, joining him on the steps.

"I'm not sure yet. It's addressed to you but with no postage. Someone must have dropped it off. Are you expecting something?" He asked tentatively.

"No. Is it dangerous, you think?" John asked, eyes wide with worry.

"Only one way to find out." Sherlock walked back inside the door, followed closely by John who closed it behind them.


	9. My Goldfish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg come together.
> 
> ""Don't ruin this for me. I'm unwrapping my present and I'd like to savour this moment." Greg gave Mycroft the most mischievous grin he could muster."
> 
> .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this is my first M/M erotica style stuff that I've ever written, so please, take it with a grain of salt. I had no beta readers, which I've mentioned before, so if you don't like it, I apologize and I hope you stick around for more of the story.
> 
> Also, in these scary times with the Coronavirus, I hope everyone is staying safe and practicing social distancing at the very least, or even self-isolation/self-quarantine. Currently, my job is considered "essential" because I work with sick and injured pets. We are practicing social distancing at work, which is very feasible for us to do, with limited exposure to the public. I am practicing self-isolation when I'm not working, but I did that mostly anyway....
> 
> Anyway, stay safe, please use cautious judgement and don't risk your loved ones' health. Separately-together we can get through this.
> 
> .

**Hyde Park Stables**

It turned out that Sherlock was right about the illegal gambling that the horse groom was running. By the time SOCO was done taking in all of the evidence and the tech team had checked the contents of the USB toggle and compared the list of outstanding debts from the cork board on the wall, it was late. Greg looked at his watch and was relieved that he had already eaten dinner. Though after that scene, even if he had been hungry, he wouldn't be now. All he wanted at this point was a hot shower and a cigarette. Maybe a nice glass of whiskey or scotch. It's too bad he didn't have a fireplace like Mycroft had, he could warm his cold feet in front of it when he got home. The shoes he had on were not meant to be sloshing around in a wet horse stable for hours. He would probably have to throw them out now. What a waste. _MYCROFT!_

He had completely forgotten. How could he forget? He'd have to attribute it to old age. The restaurant was exquisite, the food phenomenal, and the company…. Well, the company was the best part. Knowing that Mycroft felt similar about him allowed him to see each interaction in a new light. If Mycroft looked at him, it was with more than a calculating deduction. If Mycroft handed him something, it was because he was reaching for Greg. Everything had a double meaning. Greg was used to double meanings, he dealt with criminals everyday, as well as complicated people like Sherlock. At least this time, the double meaning wasn't a negative. Every thought of Mycroft was a positive for him. He couldn't wait to see him again since their time together was again cut short. Maybe if they continued having these strange half dates, or whatever they were, they could accumulatively become a full date.

Greg pulled out his phone to text Mycroft.

"New Text Message To: M. Holmes

Hope I'm not waking you up.

I just got done here and was thinking

Of you"

Hopefully that didn't sound too needy. He put the phone back in his pocket and turned to Sergeant Donovan.

"I'm leaving, I shouldn't have been out here anyway. I don't care if someone loses their whole head this time, I don't want to hear from you until Monday morning."

"Yes, sir, enjoy your weekend." She smiled at his back as he walked towards the road to hail a cab. He rubbed his hand over the mobile in his pocket before his nerves got the better of him. He pull it out again, eager to get a reply from Mycroft, but it was close to midnight already and he assumed it was probably too late. Truth be told, he had no idea what Mycroft's schedule could be. Maybe he had a strict schedule that he enforced himself, in order to keep his genius brain healthy and well-rested. Or maybe he was too important to sleep, preferring to work through the night and take vertical cat naps at his desk. Greg chuckled a bit at the image of Mycroft, chin in his hand, body slumping to the side as the deep lull of sleep took him. Probably during an important meeting as well.

"Are you ready to finish our night?" Greg was shaken out of his reverie. He didn't have to look up to see who said it, but he did anyway. Mycroft's face was peering out from the back window of a black sedan, the tint hiding everything but his lips to his hairline. Greg wanted nothing more than to jump in and snog him within an inch of his life. But he looked down at his wet trouser legs and fancy Oxfords covered in horse manure and wood chips.

"Ah, you don't want me in there, Posh. I'm in a bit of a state, currently," he said. He picked up his feet one by one and gestured to them as the horse manure and mud dripped off with a sickening _smack_.

"I was thinking a luxuriously hot shower, a set of soft, clean vestments, a glass of twenty year scotch, and maybe a massage?" Mycroft raised a suggestive eyebrow. Every bit of that sounded divine. It was everything he was wanting at that very minute and he marveled at the ability both Mycroft and Sherlock had to read someone so well. Plus, getting Mycroft at his place was an enticing prospect.

"How do you do that? How do you get right inside my brain and know exactly what I'm thinking?" He laughed. "Are you sure you don't mind carting around a horse-smelling old copper?"

"It would be my honour." Mycroft opened the door for him and slid over to make room for him, gently tapping the leather seat. Greg shook as much muck off his shoes as he could before he climbed into the seat next to him. The car started moving before the door shut fully, but it didn't help the smell. It was like he hadn't left the stables at all, and the warm air coming from the lower vents was exacerbating it, pushing it from his feet upwards towards the seats.

"Sorry, should we?..." Greg gestured to the windows and Mycroft solemnly nodded and pushed the button on the door nearest him to bring some air into the back seat. "So, are we going back to mine? I don't have any twenty year scotch, but my sofa's plenty soft." Mycroft's face didn't respond the way that Greg had hoped. It remained quite passive, actually.

"I'm sorry, Gregory. I wasn't quite expecting the smell to be so…intense. But, yes. We are headed to your flat, and don't torture yourself about the scotch, I brought that with me, as well as your laundered garments from the night before." He gently touched a brown paper bag on the floor and grinned.

"You didn't have to do that, but it's greatly appreciated." Greg smiled fondly at him. He hesitantly reached his hand out and placed it on Mycroft's knee, squeezing gently before letting it rest there until the car stopped in front of the block of flats. Greg laughed as they climbed out of the sedan. "I'm sorry again about the smell."

"I'll bill you for it." Mycroft winked at him. He grabbed the bag, sent the driver off with a wave, and followed Greg up the steps to his flat.

"Sorry for the state, I wasn't expecting such fancy company." Greg offered, for absolutely no reason than to break the silence as they stepped in through the door. The building was older, but the flat was clean and modern. Mycroft seemed pleased enough. He looked around at the art on the walls. They weren't original paintings like Greg would have loved to purchase, but the prints were well preserved and framed, ranging from Kandinsky abstracts to Monet landscapes. The clean lines of the kitchen worktop followed into the living room with a slate blue streamline sofa and natural wood-tone coffee table. He'd always loved this flat, even with the bad memories.

"The state of...." Mycroft's incredulous look made it obvious that he had no idea what Greg was talking about. There was an empty glass on the coffee table, still sitting on the cork coaster placed beneath it. There was also a thin blanket tossed over the back of the couch as if in a hurry, and a pair of dirty trainers were sitting haphazardly next to the door. "You're apologizing for your dirty trainers?"

"Yeah, well, Cindy had this religious-like obsession with keeping the flat immaculate. It became a habit." He shrugged and blushed mildly. He dropped his keys in a bowl by the door and toed his shoes off near the front mat before putting them and the trainers in the adjacent cupboard.

"That's quite honourable, Gregory. I admire a habit such as that." He smiled at Greg cheekily. "Do you want me to...?" He gestured at his shoes.

"Please." He said apologetically. "I'm going to take a shower. Glasses are in the top corner cupboard if you want to get that scotch poured. I'll just be fifteen minutes." He hung his jacket in the closet as well and motioned for Mycroft to do the same. He hesitated for a second before taking his shoes back out on account of the smell.

Greg left Mycroft to pour the scotch and made his way into the bathroom, rushing to strip off the offending clothes. He'd give anything to have Mycroft join him, but he'd save that for another time. After he was thoroughly washed, but still unshaven, he got dressed in cotton pyjama trousers and a soft cotton t-shirt and padded out to the living room. Mycroft had removed his tie and waistcoat and was sitting back on the sofa, his legs crossed at the knee and his socked toes bouncing above the coffee table. He looked so relaxed, Greg wanted to ruffle his perfectly placed hair. He wanted to take apart each flawlessly attended detail on Mycroft's exterior. He had hoped that the tie and waistcoat would still be on when he got out of the shower so he could meticulously unwrap him like a Christmas gift.

"Comfortable?" Greg asked, sitting on the sofa next to him.

"Quite." Mycroft smiled something wide and inviting. Greg coughed a nervous laugh. His brain fought him every time he was around Mycroft. He was normally so controlled and collected but being around the Holmes brothers always made him feel inferior and insecure. He couldn't always tell what was up and what was down. If he wasn't feeling so awkward, he would have walked out in the towel and tied a ribbon on his privates. But for some reason, being in his own place made him feel even more self-conscious. It didn't make sense but he wasn't a psychologist. He would have to figure it out at some point, but for now, he could just try to grow a pair and not look like a nesh wimp. Mycroft passed him a glass of scotch as he sat down. "You look comfortable as well."

"Yeah, much better than horse muck." He took a long pull of the scotch before putting his bare feet up on the coffee table. He tried to project casual nonchalance, but his muscles were a little tight as his body fought his brain. Mycroft put his own glass down on the side table and pulled a pillow from the sofa onto the floor in front of him.

"Have a seat here. I owe you the massage I had previously promised." When Greg didn't move, he leaned forward and patted the pillow. "Come on, Gregory, don't be shy. I can clearly see that your trapezius is tight." Greg didn't need much more encouragement. He slid down to the pillow on the floor, his back against the sofa. He could hear Mycroft rolling up his shirt sleeves, placing his cufflinks on the side table next to his glass.

"Oh wait, hold on a tick." Greg jumped up and ran into his bathroom, grabbing a bottle of lotion. He handed it to Mycroft then took off his shirt and sat back down on the pillow. Greg could hear the bottle open and the squishing sound of lotion on hands while Mycroft warmed it between his palms. When his hands touched Greg's shoulders, they were warm but Greg let out an involuntary shiver. Mycroft's skilled fingers worked his muscles like hands on piano keys. He had incredible pressure, kneading the knots expertly and smoothing his long fingers over Greg's neck and collarbone before going back to his upper back. Greg groaned in appreciation. Mycroft leaned forward to put his lips next to Greg's ear.

"I love the sounds you make when you can't control it." Greg let out a moan at the tickle and vibration of Mycroft's voice through his body. He turned his head toward the source and was rewarded when Mycroft's lips captured his. The smoky astringent of the scotch filled his nostrils but he could taste the sweetness on Mycroft's lips. He held the position for as long as he could before the twist in his body was too much to handle and he spun around on the pillow so his knees propped him up.

Greg was not the kind of man who bows to anyone. He didn't beg, he didn't grovel, he didn't plead. But he felt like that was what he was doing right now. He was silently beseeching this man. For what, he wasn't sure, he only knew that he wanted. Greg reached for him, gripping his thighs and rubbing his thumbs in circles over the wool trousers. The hands on his shoulders never ceased their caressing pressure which made Greg moan again, pulling back a bit from his onslaught on Mycroft's lips.

"Is it too much to say that you look good down there on your knees?" Mycroft purred at him. His voice reverberated within him, soothing any apprehension he had left. Greg reached for the buttons on Mycroft's shirt, slipping them through the holes and revealing his milk-white skin underneath. He leaned forward and kissed each inch of skin exposed. He could feel Mycroft's breath on his forehead, puffing at increasing speed. He took his time with each button, wanting to revel in the sights, sounds, and smells of the moment. Mycroft's leg muscles started to tense around Greg's torso and he released his shoulders to help him remove the buttons faster. Greg swatted his hands away like flies on cake.

"Don't ruin this for me. I'm unwrapping my present and I'd like to savour this moment." He gave Mycroft the most mischievous grin he could muster. Mycroft held his hands up in defense and gave him a pleased smile.

"By all means, Inspector." Greg resumed his detailed removal of the buttons until he got to the top of Mycroft's trousers, then he pulled the shirt tails loose and finished the last one. Greg was lost in the expanse of smooth skin in front of him, the soft auburn tendrils of hair scattered from between his nipples to down below the top of his trousers. Mycroft tensed slightly at the inspection so Greg reached up and ran his fingers from his shoulders to his waistband then hummed with approval. He reached up one more time and slid the shirt off of Mycroft's shoulders and arms. Mycroft acquiesced with a shrug to help and tossed the shirt onto an adjacent chair. Slowly, Greg put his hands on the sofa on both sides of Mycroft's legs, lifting himself up off the floor and climbed on to straddle his lap. He cupped Mycroft's face in his hands and kissed him languorously, running his tongue slowly over his bottom lip and then the top. Mycroft's hands wrapped around him and pulled him closer so their chests were pressed together, their pounding hearts beating in time.

Greg felt powerful straddling this man who was always in control of every person and situation in his life. He wanted to take him apart, piece by piece and see how he worked. He wanted to hold him in his hands while he crumbled and then put him back together again. He wanted him to melt into a puddle and then swim in it. And in turn, he wanted to open his chest and bare his heart to this man, to share his inner most thoughts and fears. He put his heart into the kiss, running his fingers through Mycroft's hair and down his neck, massaging gently at the base of his skull. He could feel his arousal underneath him, fueling Greg in his pursuit of skin. He mouthed at Mycroft's earlobe, alternating between nibbling and softly suckling. Mycroft moaned and shifted his hips to get the most friction.

"Oh yeah?" Greg smirked. He loved to feel someone begging for him. That feeling of being wanted, being needed. It was a powerful heady feeling. Mycroft didn't look like he was going to answer, so Greg decided to get a different response. He reached down to palm Mycroft's erection through his trousers. The responding moan was music to his ears, so he pressed a little harder, let his hand move a little slower. Mycroft seemingly couldn't hold back any longer. He grabbed Greg by the upper arms and lifted him slightly then pushed him onto his back on the length of the sofa. Within seconds, he was propped up above Greg, Mycroft's knees between his thighs, pressing into them from the inseam. Greg went limp under Mycroft's lips, which roamed his bare chest. He stopped at a nipple and gently nibbled, causing him to arch his back and reach out to grab of handful of Mycroft's arse. He found he couldn't quite reach though, so he settled with slipping his fingers below the waistline of his trousers in the back.

"Take these off," Greg demanded as he struggled with Mycroft's belt and trouser fly. Mycroft maintained the advantage and grabbed Greg's hand in his. He brought Greg's hand to his lips and kissed the fingertips one by one, then gently slid his pointer finger into his mouth and sucked it. "Oh, what the fuu…" Greg trailed off as his eyes rolled back into his head. How could someone make him rock hard and boneless at the same time?

Mycroft released the digit and moved to start peeling the pyjama pants off of Greg. He used both hands to pull down the offending clothing, exposing Greg's black boxer briefs. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the clothing choice.

"What, you don't like my pants?" Greg smiled and propped himself up on his elbows, kicking off the crumpled bottoms and ready to defend his fashion sense.

"Not at all, I merely thought it amusing that we seem to have the same penchant in undergarments." He stood up and unbuckled his belt, letting his own trousers fall to the floor and exposing his own black boxer briefs. Greg chuckled and reached out for Mycroft to come back on top of him. Before Mycroft could resume what he was doing, Greg wrapped his hands around his backside and squeezed. Then he ran the palms of his hands along Mycroft's upper thighs, stroking back and forth from knee to cheek.

Mycroft remained still, his eyes closed and breathing shallow. Greg had been with his fair share of partners, but the ability to effect one such as Mycroft was breathtaking. The involuntary quiver of the muscles under his hands, the shuttering of his breath. It was beautiful, magical. To be the one inciting this was such an honour, Greg was having a hard time being patient. He lurched forward and kissed him so passionately, he made himself groan. Mycroft apparently had enough of waiting as well because he pulled away to focus on relieving Greg of his pants. He palmed him a moment before wrapping his cock in warm slender fingers and stroking him tip to base.

"Jesus Christ, My." Mycroft pushed his face into Greg's neck, kissing and nibbling his nape and then moving to his collarbone, generously increasing speed with his hand. Greg was reduced to a squirming puddle of incomprehensible noises. He was beside himself, succumbing to his pure tactile senses. The lips on his chest, hot breath ghosting over his shoulder, the skillful fingers on his cock, milking him of all reasonable thought. He had wanted to take apart this man, but he was the one being taken apart.

Greg reached for the lotion with one hand and with the other, he reached for Mycroft's pants and exposed him with a flourish. He squeezed a heavy amount of the lotion into his palm and gripped Mycroft in his hand, pulling on him until he released his grip on Greg. He raised his hips, pushing their pelvises together and gripped both of their cocks in his slippery hand. Greg grabbed the back of Mycroft's neck with his free hand and pulled their faces together again. Using his tongue, he explored Mycroft's lips, teasing him into doing the same.

Greg was getting close and despite his want to go slow and sensual, he decided that he could do that any time. Mycroft's thighs were tense against Greg's so Greg let go of his neck and brought that hand to join his other in twisting and stroking their cocks together. He timed his strokes and rolled his hips with each down stroke, causing Mycroft to shudder. Mycroft's arms were shaking. Right as Greg could feel the hot white orgasm low in his abdomen, he grabbed a mouthful of Mycroft's shoulder and bit down hard enough to make him yelp in surprise.

Greg released first, spilling onto his stomach with a grunt. Mycroft came seconds later, his teeth clenched and his body shaking. He hung his head above Greg's face, his eyes closed and lips quivering. Greg watched his disheveled face, flushed in pleasure with beads of sweat rolling down his slender neck. Oh how he wanted to lick that trail it was making. _There's no reason why I can't._ So he did. He stretched his tongue out and lathed the side of Mycroft's neck, slowly with the tip of his tongue. Mycroft twitched in response so Greg kissed him sweetly.

"Will you…grab a flannel from the bathroom?" Greg smiled at the man above him apologetically. Mycroft smiled back and casually walked to the bathroom down the hall. Greg propped up on his elbows to watch him. He still wore his pants, but his long legs were naked and stretched for miles. Greg finally understood the saying, 'Hate to see you go, but love to watch you leave.' He was graceful, elegant even. He had the sure-footedness of a tiger in the forest, the lithe sinew of a ballet dancer. He was beautiful. He returned with a wet flannel and cleaned Greg's abdomen off with skillful fingers. They sat in silence for a minute, catching their breath and gathering themselves. Then Greg laughed, a chuckle that turned into a belly laugh. Mycroft seemed taken aback at first, but quickly smoothed over his expression.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft, I just think that this was a really good ending to a really great first date." Greg reached for his pants at the end of the sofa and stood up to put them on. "But of course, it doesn't have to be the end. You could…" He hesitated, wondering if it would sound too desperate. "…stay here. The night, I mean. If that sounds amendable to you?" He looked towards the floor and scratched the back of his head. _Shy? After all that?_

Mycroft was eyeing him up from the side chair, scotch in hand. His hair was mussed but the sweat had already dried on him. He was probably cold sitting there in his pants, but he looked absolutely at home, as if he were still wearing his suit. Greg really envied him. His poise, his self-assuredness. He always had the upper hand, the whole time Greg had known him.

"Gregory, I had already planned to stay until morning. But you'll need to do me a favor first." Mycroft took another sip of his scotch. He had a small smirk on his face.

"Oh yeah? What's that?" Greg was skeptical. What kind of a favor could Greg do for him?

"You'll need to take your pants back off."

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mycroft woke with a sensation of déjà vu. The room was darker, the light coming in through plastic window blinds instead of curtains. The air was filled with the smell of sex and sweat and his body ached a bit from using muscles that he didn't even realize he had, but it was divine. Gregory Lestrade was going to be the death of him, but at least he would die a happy man. Greg was wrapped around him like a vice, his hot breath on Mycroft's neck, just like last time. He could really get used to this. It was warm in the room, too warm. He kicked the blanket off his body for some fresh air. He took a deep breath and Greg stirred next to him, grinding into his backside.

"Mmm, good morning, gorgeous." Greg purred into his ear. His voice was like chocolate melting into warm milk. It soothed all aches and made him ache in different ways. He turned around in Greg's loosening arms and kissed him, letting his hands roam over Greg's tan taut body. He pulled Greg on top of him, suddenly wanting to be the submissive partner. Mycroft liked to control his business, the people around him everyday. But not here. He liked Greg's confidence when he had it. He liked Greg using authority. But he didn't quite have the words to say it to him, so he was going to have to teach him with his actions.

"It is a very good morning, Gregory." Mycroft purred right back at him. He grabbed Greg's hips and pulled their bodies together. He was determined to teach him, show him what he wanted and hopefully Greg would get the hint and take the reins. Greg kissed him sweetly, too lightly, too gently. So Mycroft pressed hard, lips and hips then pulled back, trying to tease him into taking the lead. Greg didn't seem to be taking the bait so Mycroft took another step. He moaned quietly in Greg's ear, "Do you want me, Detective Inspector?"

"You are insatiable, My. But I'm willing to rise to the challenge. I think that's pretty clear." Greg looked down between them, their bare erections rubbing together. Mycroft reached around with both hands, grabbed Greg by the arse and massaged his cheeks.

"I think I need a little more...convincing." _That should do the trick._ Greg grabbed Mycroft's wrists and pulled them to rest on the pillow above his head. He held them there firmly, though not quite as firmly as he could. _He's a work in progress, that's fine._ Mycroft gasped at the assault Greg was executing on his neck. He really was good with his mouth. He was making his way slowly down his body, stopping at each nipple to gently twist them between his teeth. Mycroft closed his eyes and gave himself over to the sensation. He clenched his jaw and let out a low growl.

Greg moved to the hair on his chest, kissing it and rubbing his nose back and forth. It felt powerful being held down and forced to endure this. _This tickling. That tickles!_

"Ah, ha ha, that's, that tickles!" Mycroft involuntarily started laughing, squirming and kicking his feet. The jig they danced caused Greg to pop off his lap, dropping Mycroft's wrists in the process. Greg looked up at him, not in surprise as Mycroft expected. His eyes were dark. His pupils were blown wide and he looked up at Mycroft without raising his head. He had a sly smirk on his face. Mycroft licked his lips in anticipation. This was more like it.

"Oh, you're going to pay for that." He said in a deep gravelly voice. He pounced on Mycroft, grabbing his wrists again with one hand and straddling his hips. Mycroft gasped in ecstasy. He pushed his hips up again to gain friction, but Greg used his free hand to hold his midsection. He went back to mouth at his neck but instead of kissing and licking, he bit piece by piece. Gently, but still getting his point across. Mycroft held still but moaned and whined under his lips. It was glorious agony.

"Oh god, yes." Mycroft threw back his head, exposing his neck. But Greg ignored it. He focused back on Mycroft's soft stomach, taking bits of flesh in his teeth. Mycroft's cock was pushing into his chin now, leaving a smear of pre-come. Greg looked down at it and with a brief hesitation, he put his teeth on the head and scraped it. Mycroft twisted in the sheets, moaning louder than before. Greg licked then, running the tip of his tongue from the base to the tip on the underside of his cock. It bounced at the gentle touch, bumping Greg in the nose. He growled at it and plunged it fully into his mouth. The hot wet tightness around him was divine. Mycroft tried to push up into him, while at the same time, tried to stay still.

Greg pulled back and pushed into Mycroft's hip bone again.

"Nuh uh." He scolded. "You are going to lay back and take it." Mycroft smiled but tried to hide it behind his arm.

"Yes, sir, Detective Inspector, sir." Greg's mouth went lax and he pulled off of Mycroft.

"Oh my God, that's why you call me that? You like getting told what to do, huh? You like being bossed around by authority?" Greg had a twinkle in his eye. Mycroft could feel his cheeks turn red. Yes, he wanted Greg to know, he wanted Greg to take advantage of it. But saying it out loud made it embarrassingly real. Mycroft only nodded. "Well, if that's what you like, I'm all for it. But we're going to need a safe word because I don't want to get aggressive and mistake your refusal as part of it." Mycroft nodded again.

"Goldfish." He finally said. It would have the double meaning for him. It would remind him to slow down and not take the moment for granted.

"Alright. Strange, but alright. Now, sit back and let me do my work." He smiled and went back to what he was doing. Mycroft smiled too. He was relieved that the conversation had gone so well. It really wasn't that perverse of a preference, but some people could get scared off by little things. Gregory seemed to fit him quite well. Not just in their perversions, but his mouth fit him quite well too....

Greg had abandoned the hold on Mycroft's wrists and was stroking his bollocks, tugging them every so often. His other hand roamed over Mycroft's chest, putting pressure on him to stay still. Mycroft felt him remove his mouth for a second and come back, then a slick finger prodded between his cheeks. He spread his legs around Greg to give him more access. Greg hummed approvingly around his cock, making him tense his thighs around Greg's torso. The finger circled and pressed, urging him to relax and he did.

He took a deep breath and when he beared down, he felt the digit enter him. He let out his breath with a groan. _This man checks all the boxes_. Greg went slow, easing into him and letting him adjust around him. When he started to move his hand, it was a slow torture, a simple in and out movement. Greg's mouth was more demanding though, his tongue pressing hard on the underside of his cock. Mycroft felt like a teenager again. Then just when Mycroft didn't think he could take anymore, Greg curled his finger, rubbing his bundle of nerves inside, causing him to cry out.

"Gregory…" Mycroft tried to warn but it was all he could get out of his mouth. After a few more deft strokes, he convulsed into his first spasm of his orgasm. Greg had pulled back just in time to avoid a mouthful. He smiled and stroked him until his convulsions became less frequent. Mycroft let his head sink into the pillows, forgetting everything else but the euphoria flowing through him.

"Are you alright, gorgeous?" Greg was hovering over his face, his toothy grin wide and inviting. "I think we need to get you in the shower, posh." He grabbed Mycroft's hand and lifted him into a sitting position off the side of the bed. Mycroft hummed in agreement.

"You finally get your wish, Gregory." Mycroft crinkled his eyes at Greg then stood up, his hand still in Greg's, and followed him into the bathroom in the hallway.

"Oh, darlin', I got my wish granted twice last night, and once this morning already."

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Greg watched Mycroft from the bedroom door. He was buttoning up his shirt starting from the bottom, putting an extreme amount of care into placing each white button into each sewn slit in the opposite side. It was such a silly thing to be mesmerised by, but Greg couldn't help it. Mycroft stood up and tucked the shirt tails into his trousers before zipping them up, fastening the button and buckling his belt. Next he pulled a tie out of the bag he had brought and proceeded to tie it into a perfect triple Eldridge knot. It was flawless and fancy, just like him. He then looked around like he was missing something, the something that Greg held in his hand. He waited for Mycroft to realize, but he didn't look towards the door.

"Looking for this?" Greg lifted the waistcoat up like an offering. Mycroft crossed the room and kissed him in exchange for the silk-backed garment. "Do you always have to wear so many layers? It's going to be like opening a gift that someone wrapped multiple times as a prank." Greg crossed his arms in front of his chest and gave his best pout.

"Suddenly you don't like opening gifts. That isn't what you said last night." Mycroft slid his jacket over the now buttoned waistcoat and straightened the ensemble. Damn, did he always have to look so good? Greg didn't answer, he just smirked and let out a growl, which made Mycroft jump a step back. "Gregory, I have a few things to do today and if you get me started again, I can't guarantee the safety of the British Nation. You wouldn't want that, would you?" He smiled something fierce at Greg.

"No sir, Mr. Government Man. You save the nation while I go for a run and burn off this energy you seem to have awaken in me." Greg was already dressed in his jogging clothes: a ratty Led Zeppelin shirt and some football pants. His trainers were well worn but he didn't want to replace them just yet, they were too comfortable. "You still going to let me know when you get back from your business trip?" Greg already felt that any time without Mycroft would be a waste of time.

"Of course. I'll ring you when I'm back." Mycroft was gathering his overcoat from the closet near the front door and putting his arms into it. Greg didn't take his eyes off of him. It was going to be one hell of a run today, maybe even beating his record. He had energy for days. He also didn't want to take this for granted, this wonderful man who was willing to accommodate for him.

"A'ight. I'm going to cook you dinner when you get back in. Anything you're in the mood for?" Greg got close to him and nuzzled his ear.

"Gregory, what I'm in the mood for is not something that can be made in the kitchen. You won't find the ingredients at the market." Mycroft captured his lips, placed his hand on the back of his head and kissed him hard. Greg groaned. This man is going to kill him, he knew it. Mycroft pulled back and put his forehead on Greg's. "God grant me the courage." He whispered.

"I'm making shrimp scampi then, with garlic flatbread and an endive and arugula salad. And I guess you can have me for dessert." He kissed Mycroft chastely on the cheek and reached behind him to open the front door. "Now, get the hell out of here before I don't let you leave." He stepped back and allowed Mycroft to turn to leave. As Mycroft stepped over the threshold, his foot came in contact with something solid that went sliding across the hallway and hit the opposite wall with a thud. "What's this?" Greg bent down to pick it up.

The white butcher paper was clean and perfect. The top had script in black ink, no postage or address. It simply had his name: Gregory Lestrade.

"Is this from you?" Greg asked with a sly smile.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but sadly, no. Do you have other admirers?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him.

"Why, you looking for a reason to fight for me?" He laughed. "No, I'm all yours, posh. You won't need to fight anyone." He looked at the box in his hand. "But if it's not from you, I'm not sure where it came from. Something about it doesn't seem right. Wait until I open it up, yeah?" Mycroft nodded. They walked back through the open door and Greg sat the box on the worktop. He carefully broke the tape holding it together and pulled it off the box underneath. The box itself was white, it looked similar to the box Mycroft had sent with the delicious French pastries. He looked back at him. "You're sure it's not from you?"

"I assure you, I may be getting older, but my faculties are just fine, thank you." Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him and Greg instantly regretted asking. He opened the box, hoping to find some flaky buttery decadence. What he found was quite the opposite.

Mycroft was instantly on his phone, talking sternly to someone on the other side. Greg's vision was blurring a bit. He felt sick and made his way to the bathroom down the hall, emptying his stomach contents into the loo, which didn't take long since he only had water all morning. When he returned to the kitchen, Mycroft was texting furiously and the box was closed up again.

"Grab a bag of clothes, Gregory. We need to leave immediately." Greg didn't move a muscle. He just stared at Mycroft. "Gregory! Go grab a bag of clothes, enough for a few nights at minimum. We need to get you somewhere safe, but we need to stop by Baker Street first. I'll give you five minutes, now go." Greg didn't question, he went straight to the bedroom and grabbed an overnight bag and threw in some clean socks, pants, a few t-shirts, and jeans. Then he went to the bathroom and grabbed his toothbrush, deodorant, and his shave kit. When he returned, Mycroft was sitting at the table, his hands steepled under his chin. He looked so much like Sherlock, it was disconcerting. But also a bit comforting. If there was anyone on your side when you're threatened, the Holmes brothers were his first choice. The whole of the British Government, and the best Consulting Detective. But if you're threatened because of your connection with the Holmes brothers? _Son of a bitch._ Greg knew exactly what was going to happen now. But he wasn't going to let it. He didn't know how John did it.

"Don't tell me you're leaving me somewhere just because of a threat. I'm not going anywhere without you so don't you dare push me away because you think it's safer for me." Greg squared his jaw and looked Mycroft in the eyes. He dared him to fight over it. Mycroft let out an audible sigh before he brought his hands back down. But he smiled, despite the situation.

"I didn't expect you to back off, Gregory. Actually, you surprise me. I'm constantly surprised by you in fact, and that is one of the reasons I'm so intrigued by you. I'm not leaving you, and I'm definitely not pushing you away. I'm going to keep you safe, which is within my sight. You, and everyone else that has been threatened are coming to mine." He stood up and ushered Greg towards the door. Greg reached over and grabbed the bottle of scotch before allowing Mycroft to close the door behind them.

"So why are we headed to Baker Street?" Greg asked as they walked down the steps in the hallway. Mycroft had the bakery box in his hands, cradling it securely.

"We're meeting Sherlock and John there. Mrs. Hudson also received a threat such as this. We'll keep you all safe, I promise."


	10. Bloody Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of Sherlock POV, we learn a bit about Mycroft's hidden talents, and Mrs. Hudson is chuffed as ever.  
> .  
> .  
> ""Ahh-hmm." A clearing of the throat in the doorway, which could only be described as 100% familial, and 100% irritating, halted both his thoughts and John's tender kisses on his neck.
> 
> "I'm glad to see you two have finally gotten over your stigma, but if you'd be so kind as to stop for a moment to help catch a criminal...." Mycroft twirled his obnoxious umbrella in his hands, the tip pivoting on the hardwood floor."  
> .  
> .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of my birthday today, I thought I'd post a day early. I'm contemplating posting another chapter later this week, but we'll see how it goes....
> 
> I did some Pashto sentences that I couldn't get to format correctly in here...my apologies.
> 
> As always, nothing was beta-read. I hope you enjoy this :)

**John's Flat**

Sherlock hesitated, looking at the white butcher paper-wrapped box on the table. There was no postage, only a thin black script, drawn with care using a dominant right hand. It had three words on the top. Well, not words, per se, but a combination of words that made up a name. _Dr. John Watson_. It was beautifully written, long elegant loops connected the letters, like they were meant to be together. The black ink swirled like lace; a practiced hand, a steady hand. If those letters had existed on their own, they wouldn't mean the same thing. They would just be scribbles, child's doodles that only took shape with the greatest imagination.

He ran his fingers over the top, before bending down to smell the edge of it, breathing in deeply and pulling the muscles around his nostrils to access the most data. John stood by, arms crossed in front of his chest and his eyes wide in anticipation. His lips were pulled in a frown and his jaw was set, grinding his teeth together. Sherlock looked at him briefly before progressing with his investigation. He turned the package to the side, facing the folded edge toward himself and slipped a long finger between the folds. John took a subconscious step backwards. Sherlock took a deep breath and slid his finger over, releasing the tape holding the fold together and waited an agonizing second before turning the box around and doing the same on the opposite side. John was now visibly wincing.

"It's alright, John. I don't believe it's rigged with anything." John didn't reply, but his expression remained skeptical. Sherlock finished unwrapping the butcher paper to reveal what looked like a bakery box. He hesitantly, yet precisely, unlatched the cardboard tab and opened the box. Bright red tissue paper was crumpled and folded inside, hiding its contents. The air was thick in the room, choking them both into a deafening silence. The clock on the wall ticked loudly, and the sounds of both of their heart beats competing in rhythm created a buzz that was close to a purr. Except, it was anything but soothing. Without flourish, Sherlock pulled back the paper. The smell is what hit them first. An acrid smell of burned hair mixed with decomposition and grilled meat. It was sweet and rancid together. It was intoxicating and sickening. John's mouth opened when he realized what it was. Then he turned and gagged, running towards the bathroom. Sherlock put the back of his hand to his mouth and closed his eyes.

Nestled snugly inside the red paper was a charred human heart, adorned with a black ribbon and a white card. _I O U._ Sherlock's stomach tightened and his heart sped up. _He's dead, we confirmed it._ Sherlock's mind raced with possibilities. He saw the back of Moriarty's head on the ground, the blood pooling from the hole. Molly had done the autopsy. Mycroft ID'd the body. There was no mistake, no trickery.

On the back of the card, there were more script letters: _With love, Sebastian Moran._

"Sebastian Moran." Sherlock was fixated on the card in front of him. John walked slowly back into the kitchen, wiping his mouth and breathing heavy. It didn't sound like anyone he remembered being in Moriarty's web, but there were hundreds he had discovered, so for a few to slip through his sights was forgivable. Well, not forgivable, but understandable.

"What the hell is going on, Sherlock?" John placed his hands on his hips and narrowed his eyes. "Who the hell is Sebastian Moran and who the hell is that?" He pointed to the heart in the box on the table.

"It's a message. An 'IOU'". Sherlock pulled out his phone and started typing furiously, his fingers flying across the buttons with such speed that it seemed impossible that words were being formed at all. He texted Mycroft. If anyone knew who this man was in relation to Moriarty, it was Mycroft. He really didn't want to involve him, but he already knew that there were two other people who were threatened as well.

"An 'IOU' from who?" John was still across the room, not intending to approach the box, for fear that it may still contain an explosive of some sort. Sherlock didn't answer, but he was saved by John's mobile ringing. John pulled it out of his pocket and immediately answered it.

"Mrs. Hudson, is everything alright?" Sherlock had expected this. He could hear Mrs. Hudson's shrill panicked voice through the receiver.

"Oh, John! They left a box! I thought it was a box of biscuits from my sister, but it's…it's…." She broke off in sobs.

"It's ok, don't touch it anymore, we'll be there in a bit." John rung off and turned to Sherlock, who was still typing on his phone which was receiving intermittent beeps. "That was Mrs. Hudson, we need to get back to Baker Street."

Sherlock kept his head down but reached out for a napkin on the table and pulled something out of the box. John wouldn't need to ask. He would know what it was. It was an Operational Service Medal for service in Afghanistan. He knew what it was because he had one himself, which he received after his honorary discharge. The colors of the ribbon were unmistakable. The medal on this particular award was dirty, it was obviously worn and not left in its box on a shelf. John wasn't the only soldier sent home with a medal like this. Thousands had been given out since 2002, there was no way that they could guess who this one belonged to, but he guessed based on the fact that it was addressed to John, it was probably someone he served with, someone he knew.

"Let's go." Sherlock placed the medal back into the box and grabbed his coat from the hook on the wall, adorning it in a flourish. Then he wrapped his scarf around his neck and gathered the whole package in his hands.

The game was on.

********************************************

**221B Baker St.**

When the cab pulled up at 221B, the anticipated black sedan was already out front and with a subtle glance into the upstairs window, Sherlock could see that they were not in the flat. They must be with Mrs. Hudson and considering the fright she must have had, it would be reasonable to assume that the sentimental Lestrade would want to stay with her in her main floor flat. Sherlock jumped out of the cab before it made a full stop, leaving John to pay the cab, presumably. The door knocker was perfectly straight, aligning annoyingly with the front door.

Inside, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were sitting on her sofa together, the latter was cradled into the former's shoulder, her face red and pressed into his overcoat. Mycroft sat in an adjacent chair, the floral print contrasting against the clean lines of his navy blue suit and what was left of his perfectly combed hair on his abnormally large cranium. His long legs were crossed in front of him and he held in his hand a saucer and tea cup. He took a sip and looked up, haptically conversing with Sherlock.

Sherlock: (Are you ok?)

Mycroft: (As to be expected.)

Sherlock glanced at the two people on the sofa.

Sherlock: (And them?)

Mycroft: (Again, as to be expected. But together, we can handle it.)

Sherlock: (Any leads so far from your sources?)

Mycroft: (I'm still waiting. In the meantime, here is the package that Gregory received.)

Mycroft pushed the bakery box in front of him on the coffee table towards Sherlock.

Sherlock: (Gregory?)

Mycroft: (Don't start, Sherlock, now is not the time.)

"Mrs. Hudson, are you alright?" John had caught up behind him and moved to sit on the other side of the sofa. Sherlock carefully lifted the bakery box from the coffee table and placed it alongside the other two boxes on the kitchen worktop. He opened each box and compared them.

Inside each box was a similar charred human heart, each with a white paper tag attached by a black silky ribbon. Each tag said the same thing. The box which arrived for John contained a Ministry of Defence campaign medal for service in Afghanistan. The box left for Lestrade had an officer's warrant card. The box left for Mrs. Hudson contained a single Mahjong tile, the symbol for the East Wind. _Eurus? No, there is no way, but obviously this is an attestation of Moran's status within Moriarty's web._

Moriarty knew of Eurus long before he shot himself. He knew she was a soft spot for both Holmes brothers. Sherlock could not imagine that Moriarty would give such sensitive information to just anyone in his organization. Moran must be more than a foot soldier; a corporal, a sergeant, lieutenant, a captain? Not a captain like John. John was an army captain. John was a man of undeniable emotional fortitude, but he lacked the rational mind to separate the emotional responses in time of extreme distress. Moran was more than likely a major. If one could make the argument that Moriarty was a general in his own private consulting criminal army, then Moran was probably a major. And he probably had tangible military experience.

"Mycroft, your people need to look into Moran's military history." Sherlock announced without taking his eyes off of the boxes on the counter.

"Already one step ahead of you, dear brother. He was a decorated sniper, sent home with a dishonorable discharge due to perceived desertion and his increasing preoccupation with the destruction of his firearm." Mycroft held up his phone to indicate he had just received the information.

"So, an elegant way of saying that the guy is a skilled marksman with a penchant for killing? That's just great. Just brilliant. And us three are being threatened, why?" John always got angry when he was scared, when he was confused and felt like he was the last to know something. Sherlock never told him the whole story of his exile and why he had to do it in the first place. He wasn't prepared to tell John his feelings after it was obvious that he was in love with Mary. John's happiness was all that mattered to Sherlock. But now, John only had Rosie. It was time that he was honest with him, he deserved to know the truth.

"This is the retaliation of Moriarty's Major Moran. Moriarty wanted to burn my heart out. He had set up snipers to take out the people closest to my heart, the three people who mean the most to me, who encompass my heart. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and you, John."

"Oh, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson wiped her nose on a handkerchief, looking at him with such adoration in her eyes, he had to look away. He looked to Lestrade, who was smiling like a kid in a candy store. Then he looked to John. He couldn't quantify John. The look on his face displayed too much to take in; it was stunned? He seemed to have frozen in place. He was staring at Sherlock, no doubt trying to plan his escape. He must understand by now, it was getting harder and harder to hide it.

"John?" Sherlock could no longer stand the anticipation. He needed to know, he needed more data. People's thoughts were not as easy to read as he made it out to be. He could make educated deductions based off of the environment and specific scenarios, but this was not something he had experience with. John stood up and looked for a second like he might move forward towards Sherlock, who was now standing stiffly. Instead, he left through the front door and Sherlock listened to his footfalls on the steps going up to their flat, the door closing behind him and then the subsequent pacing above their heads. Sherlock hesitated and looked at the others in the room who all gave the same expected look on their faces. He stood still with his eyes shifting from one person to the next, unable to decide what would be the best course of action. If John had left of his own accord, maybe he wanted to be alone. Maybe he needed to process this information in his own way. Why else would he leave?

"The ceiling is quite thin, don't you agree?" Sherlock said to the group.

Mycroft: (Go after him, you halfwit.)

Sherlock: (Why?)

Mycroft: (Trust me, brother mine. This is something best said in private. Go.)

Sherlock turned on his heels and followed John's path back to their flat. He climbed the stairs slowly, trying to decide what to say to him, but without knowing what John was thinking, it was hard to construct an appropriate dialogue to start with. He took a deep breath before he opened the front door.

John stopped pacing and turned to look at Sherlock. His eyes were a bit red and glassy. He obviously was upset by this information. Sherlock wanted to defend his actions and try to explain, but he didn't want to push John away either. He was stuck in a perpetual circle of reasoning, looking down at the floor.

"So, you…what? You pretended to kill yourself, for us? For me? Because he threatened me? You left me, to protect me?" He stepped closer to Sherlock, close enough that Sherlock could see his shoes in the view he had of the floorboards in front of him. "What do you want from me, Sherlock? Answer me." Captain John Watson. Sherlock was paralyzed by the tone of John's voice.

"You. Just you," Sherlock whispered, not looking up, afraid of what he would see in John's eyes. His fingers twitched with each heartbeat through his veins, he could hear it in his ears. Thump. Thump. Thump. John. John. John. It was loud. Surely John could hear it, hear his own name echoed within Sherlock's chest, banging against his ribs. Surely John knew how he felt. He'd been helping deduce each case for the last few years, despite the hiatus they took while Sherlock was gone. John read people much better than anyone Sherlock knew, he had to have seen it by now, even felt it.

"I…ah, thought you were married to your work." John's feet shuffled in a dance of unease. Was he uneasy because this was what he wanted or because he didn't want it?

"You are my work, John." Sherlock hitched his breath as he saw John's shoes take a step closer, only inches from his own now. He could feel the heat emanating off of John, bathing him in a warm tightness normally reserved for his private thoughts alone at night. John let out a breath that sounded somewhere between a huff and a laugh, then something like a low growl. Sherlock flinched and pulled in his shoulders. He didn't particularly like being hit, but if that was what John had intended to do, he would let him. Again. As many times as it took to make John feel better. He didn't want to lose him again.

"Look at me." John's tone was about as quiet as Sherlock's. He waited for something, but Sherlock didn't move a muscle. He wasn't going to either. He couldn't. "I said, look at me, Sherlock. Now." Captain John Watson. Of course John knew. Before Sherlock could move, John reached forward and gripped Sherlock's chin in his fingers. The contact moved Sherlock back an inch, but not of his own volition. John lifted the chin in his hand just an inch so Sherlock was looking down his nose at his eyes, so close he could feel John's breath on his face. "Was it all for me?" He whispered, Sherlock's hair fluttering with the words across his face. He nodded, so slightly only John would know. John loosened his grip on Sherlock's chin and let his fingers linger a bit before moving them towards his jawline and then back towards his neck, just behind his ear.

Sherlock's mind had gone completely blank except the warm line that John's finger traced across his jaw, like a neon gas lit sign, _John was here._ He wanted to coax that finger across his whole body, grab it and make sure it never left, but didn't for fear of the opposite happening. If he acknowledged it, it might fade into his background memory and cheapen it. But he had doubts. John was still grieving Mary, he was sure of that. He mumbled her name in his sleep, he wished she was still there.

"John, I don't want you to do anything-" John stopped him with a finger to his lips and smiled.

"I'll only do what I _want_ to, not what I think I _need_ to." John's voice was low and husky and it made Sherlock's head heavy. John pulled his finger away and replaced it with his lips.

They were softer than Sherlock expected, he had spent extensive time looking at John's lips and wondering just what they would feel and taste like. They weren't as soft as Janine's, but when he parted his own lips and took in the bottom of John's, he could taste that they were just as sweet, maybe sweeter. _Earl Grey tea and milk. Hint of toothpaste._ John's hand had moved to the back of his head, entangling in his hair and gently pulling them together and Sherlock complied eagerly. He wrapped his arms around the small of John's back, letting him guide the kiss, but trapping him in an embrace. _Don't wake up. Don't wake up._

John groaned and took a half step forward until he was pressed against him, tugging on Sherlock's hair now and putting his hand on Sherlock's hip, his fingers digging into the trousers and flesh. The groan sent Sherlock into a tailspin. He let go of John's back and brought his hands to cup John's face, hoping to use the kiss to show him how much he cared, how much he had missed him in the last few years. All the quiet nights in the flat, watching crap telly by himself, Mrs. Hudson checking in on him. He still felt guilt, but it was being soothed away by John's lips and hands, inch by desperate inch, and each sigh sliding him further from himself. How could he fully show this man what he meant to him? Nothing seemed adequate to convey his emotions. He'd rather stab a knife through his hand on the mantle than try to express them. But John deserved to know, he deserved to be loved the way he himself loved. The small touches, the thoughtful gestures. Milk. Maybe he could offer to get the milk.

"Milk." Sherlock blurted through John's lips. He swallowed hard, his eyes still closed. If he opened them, John would be gone and it would be another bad dream. A good dream that ended too early.

"What?" John pulled his head away but kept his hands on Sherlock, not yet willing to release him. Hopefully, it was for the same reason as Sherlock's.

"I can get the milk. I'll get it whenever we need it." John chuckled and shook his head.

"Damn the milk, Sherlock. Just come back everyday. In one piece. Or at least in enough pieces for me to put back together." He leaned forward and kissed Sherlock's cheek. He hesitated for a second then placed another kiss further up, following his cheekbone. When he got to his ear, he moved down to his pulse point, hovering before placing another kiss there.

Sherlock let out a whine. He didn't mean to, he tried to stop it before it passed his lips, but it forced its way against his tongue and came out high pitched and strained. Not the most dignified noise to make but he wasn't sure if he really cared right now. Right now, he was being taken apart in the arms of his favorite person in the world. Right now, it was just him and John. Like it had been so many times in the past. Just a consulting detective and his army-

"Ahh-hmm." A clearing of the throat in the doorway, which could only be described as 100% familial, and 100% irritating, halted both his thoughts and John's tender kisses on his neck.

"I'm glad to see you two have finally gotten over your stigma, but if you'd be so kind as to stop for a moment to help catch a criminal...." Mycroft twirled his obnoxious umbrella in his hands, the tip pivoting on the hardwood floor. John's head was down and he tried to hide his red kiss-swollen mouth around the collar of his jumper. Sherlock closed his eyes for a second to gather his thoughts.

"Uh, yes. Moran wants me to solve the murders of the recipients of the hearts. I assume he's trying to play a game like Moriarty did but he's not as clever. An army soldier, a police officer, and a pensioner. A direct correlation for the people who were supposed to be killed when I didn't kill myself. He obviously has been hiding since Moriarty's death and when we went public with my return, chose to finish the job on his own." Sherlock started pacing a bit. "I need to use the lab, I need to find the bodies of the ones he killed. I'm sure there will be more to tell us about where we can find Moran." He turned to look at Mycroft, hoping to move past what he had just been caught doing.

Mycroft: (I'm taking our wards to my place. The security is top of the line.)

Sherlock: (No. John won't do it.)

Mycroft: (I'm not risking Gregory. And I know you don't want to risk Mrs. Hudson.)

"Can you two speak out loud like the rest of us humans?" John was watching them with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

"John, I'm taking you all to a safe house." Mycroft replied resolutely.

"Ah, no. No, thank you. You left me out last time, you're not doing it again." John shook his head and dug in his heels. Then Captain John Watson took a step forward, pushing back his shoulders.

"John, you have a daughter to think of. She needs a father." Mycroft was being rather sentimental. Sherlock wondered if Lestrade had already melted his brother's notoriously cold heart.

Sherlock: (Are you ill?)

Mycroft: (It's called being concerned. Try it.)

Sherlock: (I think you just walked in on me showing concern for John....)

"Fine, I'll bring Rosie to settle in, but I'm not taking a back seat. And I don't think Greg will either." John huffed his way past Mycroft and went back down the stairs.

"Thank you for that." Sherlock glared at him from across the room. "I could have talked to him. And if you had given me five minutes, it would have been settled."

"Five minutes? In five minutes, Moran would have heard you moaning John's name across town," Mycroft said. Sherlock hissed like a cat and stormed back to Mrs. Hudson's flat, leaving Mycroft chuckling. He could hear John and Lestrade talking.

"-and that's ok with you?" John was standing in front of Lestrade, gesturing at him with his hands in front of his body.

"Look, mate, I trust them. I know that you've been burnt a bit by Sherlock in the past, but don't you trust him?" Lestrade clasped his hands behind his head and sat back on the sofa. "Have you seen Mycroft's place? It's quite nice. Plus, don't you like to be taken care of sometimes?"

John blushed at that. Sherlock could see the struggle in his head. Sherlock had always taken charge in their cases, made demands and thought nothing of it. Maybe it made John feel emasculated when he was taken care of, but he never made any sort of notion of that at the time. It was understandable that John would feel abandoned again if Sherlock didn't include him. But if anything happened to John because of him, it would be worse than death. He couldn't bear it. And with Rosie in the picture, it made for more complicated affairs. There were now two people that he loved more than anything, and another two people that he cherished. If he had to kill himself again, he would do it. He wouldn't like it, but he would do it. His back still ached with the memory of his time apart from John, not to mention the struggles he had to deal with after he came back. John kissing him did not mean that he would not move on if Sherlock died again. He couldn't risk what had already been done, how far they had come.

"Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson can look after Rosie." Sherlock nodded in finality.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**John's Babysitter's**

John got back into the waiting black sedan with Rosie in his arms and placed her into the car seat in the middle between himself and Mycroft. He got the strange feeling he had the same night that Mycroft had "kidnapped" him. He didn't want to make Rosie cry so he hid his unease with a goofy grin at the little girl as he buckled her in. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him but didn't say a word. Which was good, because John didn't want to hear anything that he would be saying. John slid into the seat and shut the car door.

He didn't like the thought of leaving Rosie and running off to chase a bad guy, but this wasn't just a bad guy. This was a trained sniper, dead-set on revenge for the killing of his general. Who knew what sort of twisted relationship they really had. Revenge was a strong motivator. He trusted Sherlock. Mycroft, not so much, but he had no choice. Sherlock seemed to trust him, which was almost good enough for John. Mycroft was tapping away on his phone, just like Anthea had been doing.

"Angry Birds? Words with Friends?" John smirked at him. He didn't know why he wanted to poke the bear, but it made him feel better somehow.

"Actually, Dr. Watson, I do have a running game of Words with Friends with quite a few people. But Anthea is the best opponent. She keeps me on my toes. But this," he raised the phone in his hands, "is about Sebastian Moran. I understand that you don't trust me, but I'd like to try to make that up to you. Plus, if you and my brother are going to be…extending your relationship, I feel I should also extend an olive branch of sorts." Mycroft gave him what appeared to be a smile. John didn't buy it. John muttered under his breath.

ته مغرور سوډJohn: (You arrogant sod)

ژبه ، ډاکټر واټسن.Mycroft: (Language, Dr. Watson)

زه نه پوهېدم چې ته په پښتو خبرې کوې.John: (I didn't know you spoke Pashto) 

Mycroft: (I trust you to take care of my brother. He loves you, you know)زه په تاسو باور لرم چې زما د ورور ساتنه وکړئ. هغه تاسو سره مینه لري ، تاسو پوهیږئ.

John sighed and nodded his head.

"I know." He turned back to look out the window. There was a lot more riding on this now. His daughter, his friends, and now what could be considered the start of a different type of relationship with the man he loved. He had a lot to lose. He subconsciously shifted his hips in the seat, feeling the cool metal of the hand gun in his waistband. It was heavy and it made him feel safe when he wasn't around Sherlock. The bullet proof glass of the car windows was a small grace. He dreaded going out to Mycroft's estate. It was large and not comforting at all. There were too many rooms, too many places for dangers to hide. He knew that Mycroft had the best security, but it still didn't feel right. If Sherlock could crack it, could Moran?

"I've increased security, of course, since the little stunt you two pulled. Better technology, more sentries. You'll be safe, Dr. Watson. I assure you. You didn't need to bring that gun of yours, but I understand. Just relax for now. Gregory is making dinner and I sent out for some things specifically for your daughter." _So, mind reading must run in the family._ John didn't really appreciate being deduced like that by Mycroft, but at least it wasn't something he was trying to keep private. It was nice, actually. Really nice. Almost too nice. John didn't want to read too much into it. He wanted to get Rosie settled and have some dinner. He hadn't eaten since breakfast and a hot home cooked meal made by someone else sounded great.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**St. Bart's Lab**

Sherlock was fixated on his microscope under the focused lights of the lab. He didn't want to be there, he knew Molly could come in at any moment, but he was hoping it was her day off as he had yet to see any of her belongings in the normal places around the lab. He was still feeling raw about what happened. He couldn't reciprocate her feelings, not the way she meant them and she knew it. Him and John were not a couple, it's not like he could use that as an excuse at this point. It wasn't that he didn't love her, he did of course. She was a good friend. Without her, he wouldn’t have survived his fall and he wouldn't have been able to disappear for two years while he dismantled Moriarty's web. Well, not all of it, it turns out.

He also didn't like to be here without John. This was the last place he saw John before the fall and it wasn't on good terms. What John would call a fight. Sherlock wouldn't call it a fight, he was protecting John. He was protecting everyone he cared about. Looking back on what had happened, he didn't regret a thing. He would have done it the same way a million times. Even though he hurt John, he could never have told him. John was too emotional and he didn't lie well. He couldn't have faked the grief needed to believe he was really gone. It's not that Sherlock didn't understand, he just didn't realize that John wouldn't understand. He also didn't realize the depth of feelings that John had for him.

He only had one secret left from John: for him to find out about the torture he endured in Serbia. Sherlock dreaded it. If his relationship with John progressed like a normal relationship, John would eventually see the scars on his back. He would know that it happened while he was gone and he may even deduce that it happened shortly before he came home and wasn't healed when John had attacked him. He didn't want John to hold on to any more guilt. He had enough when it came to Mary, he didn't need it from Sherlock as well. _John._ His John. He needed to figure out these deaths for John. To keep John safe.

He focused back on the microscope, looking at thin cross sections of the heart that was sent to Mrs. Hudson. He had sent away for the toxicology report and was eagerly awaiting the results from an intern. Within the slides, there was nothing unusual. Lestrade was waiting to hear back from Scotland yard on any reports of bodies found with no hearts. So far, he hadn't heard anything back. He checked his mobile just in case. He didn't have time to waste when so many people he cared about were being threatened.

Sherlock pulled the slide off in a huff and replaced it with a similar slide, but with a cross section of the heart left at Lestrade's. He thought there was something off but he looked at the full heart in front of him. Yes. That's it. An enlarged vertical chamber. Right vertical dilation. This man suffered from cardiomyopathy. He was probably an alcoholic. Damn, Lestrade may give up drinking after this. Sherlock sat back in the chair and sighed. After looking at the heart John was sent, he noted the hole where the bullet went through. It was more than likely from a SIG Sauer P226. He was starting to dread what the other person died of.

Just then, his mobile rang. It was Lestrade.

"Hey, they found a body. East Brixton. Looks to be our pensioner at Windmill Lodge Care Centre. I'd join ya, but Mycroft spun some scheme about me helping out on some government case so I could stay out of sight. I'll text the address." Sherlock stopped him before he rung off.

"Who's lead?" Sherlock asked wearily.

"Don't give him a hard time, Sherlock! It's Dimmock. He respects you now, so give him a break." Lestrade's voice was shrill in his ear.

Sherlock rung off and put the phone in his pocket. He packed everything away and as he was leaving the intern he was waiting for came rushing in. He skidded to a halt just within the door into the lab.

"Carbamazepine and valproic acid," He said, breathlessly. "That's what was in the blood. They're common for treating epilepsy. But the amounts found were definitely enough for an overdose. It could be cause of death. Well, without seeing the rest of the body." He looked down at his shoes. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. His inner John told him to throw the kid a bone.

"Ah, yes. Good work," He looked down at the badge clipped to the kid's white coat. "Derrick." Then he turned and with a flutter of his coat tails, disappeared out the door behind the intern.


	11. Pensioner Perplexity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Mycroft investigate a scene, Greg and John make themselves at home at Mycroft's place, and Sherlock throws a fit.
> 
> ""Her heart was cut out of her chest, looked to be by a rather sharp blade but an inexperienced hand. Quite a hack job really, blood everywh-"
> 
> "Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, pale and wide eyed."  
> .  
> .  
> .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have some extra time this week due to the Arizona governor declaring a stay-at-home order (though I am still working 3+ days a week due to my job being essential). Again, I hope you all are doing your part to help stop the spread of this pandemic, and are staying safe and sane in self isolation! Reading, writing, watching movies and TV, and cooking. Have you ever made your own yeast-based bread? It's fun when it works and terribly hilarious when it doesn't. Win-win!
> 
> Take this time to learn new skills, fix things around your home, or create art and homemade items to brighten your life! If you have a needle and thread and some extra fabric (socks are great, or clothes that you no longer use), you can find tons of tutorials online for creating fun stuffed critters. I use Pinterest for that. Here's an example: https://pin.it/7pS22VV  
> .  
> .  
> .

**Windmill Lodge Care Centre, East Brixton**

Mycroft met Sherlock at the senior centre. He waited outside until Sherlock showed up in a taxi. He could already smell the inside of the place, slowly wafting through the open door as the officers moved in and out. Old people and babies; Not really his thing. There was too much emotion involved with them. Babies made him think of the everlasting movement of time and old people made him think of the ending of time. Mycroft swallowed hard, trying not to gag at the smell.

"Not sure why you're here, this isn't really your style." Sherlock noted as he walked up to the entrance. He had his game face on. His collar was turned up, his hands in his jacket pockets. Mycroft spun his umbrella handle and smiled.

"Just so. We can't take chances this time. No Lazarus, no hiding. Let's just finish it." Mycroft took a moment to consider. "I think we both understand that there's…more at stake this time. Are you willing to risk losing how far you've come for an overachieving simian with a sniper rifle?" He narrowed his eyes and smirked, daring Sherlock to disagree. Sherlock smiled back and pulled open the door into the facility.

This time, the smell and heat hit Mycroft like a brick wall. He pulled back with his mouth twisted in disgust, but reluctantly followed Sherlock inside. The elderly clients milled around the community room, lost in their sad little circadian rhythms. They were oblivious to the officers that were going back and forth through the area. Sherlock made a bee-line to the room that held the body. SOCO was already on scene and were dusting for prints and officers were taking pictures of every part of the room. Mycroft turned his head away the second they walked in.

The body was on the bed as if she were sleeping, but her chest was splayed open and blood stained the edges of her frock around the ripped fabric. Mycroft couldn't stomach a scene like this, in fact, he wasn't sure why he had come in the first place. He just felt a need to keep things moving, to keep Gregory safe. He turned around and cleared his throat, urging Sherlock to hurry so they could leave.

"I can do this without you here. You didn't need to come." Sherlock mumbled behind him. Mycroft could hear the swish of his coat, the click of his footsteps on the linoleum moving around the bed.

"Yes, I completely agree. But I wanted to offer my support." Mycroft pulled out his handkerchief and placed it to his nose and mouth. The iron smell of the blood was getting to his stomach. Sherlock chuckled.

"Support? You can't support me if you're losing your cake on my crime scene. Leave now, before you contaminate the evidence!" Sherlock growled at him. Mycroft didn't hesitate. He moved swiftly to the door and waited in the hallway. He leaned up against the wall and took a deep cleansing breath. He was glad he waited to eat before coming here. He didn't want to waste the meal Gregory was preparing for them at his place right now. He pulled out his phone to message him.

"New Message to: Lestrade

I hope you have found everything

You need in the pantry. I do look

Forward to eating dinner with you."

He smiled a little sideways before he sent it. He felt eyes to his right and looked over. A little old lady was sitting in a wheelchair beside him, smiling up at him. He was taken aback and grimaced a little.

"Are you visiting someone, dearie?" She asked him in a small and cheerful voice. She didn't seem to notice his repulsed face, which was good because he realized that she may be able to help in the investigation.

"No, actually, I'm here about the death of the woman in this room. An Agnus Davies. Did you know her?" He asked as politely as possible. She could have seen something, though by the squinting of her eyes, she probably wouldn't be able to identify precisely the assailant who had been in the room. She made him think of being alone and dying alone. With no one to mourn him, no one to say that they missed him. He thought of Gregory and his cheeky smile. The way one side of his top lip curled further than the other when he looked sideways at him. The time they spent together so far, the mornings he had been blessed to wake up in his arms. He thought about being able to do it everyday. And coming home to him every night. Well, at least every night that their schedules lined up. He would wait up all night just to feel Greg's arms around him. He had never met anyone before that understood him, yet challenged him the way that Gregory did.

"Oh yes, sweet Agnus. She was lovely. It's a shame that she's gone. She always ran our Mahjong night here every Tuesday. I don't know what we'd do without her." She shook her head.

"Did she have many visitors as of late?" He implored.

"Not usually, but she had one yesterday. He was a big strapping lad that she used to babysit. I didn't catch his name though. He had such a sweet smile, that man. It was so nice of him to come and visit her." Mycroft hummed at that. _So Moran killed the woman who used to change his nappies? Not really what most people would call a "nice lad"._

Sherlock came bursting out of the room just then, saving Mycroft from continuing his awkward conversation with the pensioner. He had a determined look on his face; obviously he had found something that he wasn't sharing just yet. Mycroft knew the routine, despite his hatred of it. He rolled his eyes and followed him out of the godforsaken place. Once they were outside the doors, He grabbed Sherlock's arm to stop him.

"What did you find?" Mycroft demanded. He didn't like being kept in the dark anymore than John did. He dropped his hand at Sherlock's glare. "I'm a part of this, and just like John, I need to be kept abreast of this." He softened his gaze. "I need to protect you this time. I need to make up for what I've done." Sherlock relaxed his shoulders as well. He studied Mycroft for a minute before reaching into his pocket. He pulled out an exquisite gold Rolex.

"I found this on her wrist. It's not very 'old lady' attire, don't you think?" He smiled with half his mouth and waved the watch a bit in the air. "The hands aren't working and they're stuck on twelve. I can only assume he wants to meet at midnight, not noon. We just have to find the other bodies so I can get the place and date." Sherlock raised his arm in the air, flagging down a taxi in no time.

"Sherlock, I have a car. You need to eat something while we wait for the next body to present itself. Come, the others will be waiting for us." Mycroft waved off the taxi driver and gestured towards his private car for Sherlock. Sherlock reluctantly followed him and got in.

\----------------------------------------------------------------

**Mycroft's Manor**

Greg was absorbed in the kitchen at Mycroft's, chopping up parsley for the shrimp dish when John came in, a smiling baby in his arms. He set her down in an ornate high chair that Mycroft must have sent out for her. He handed her a bumble bee stuffie, kissed her on the forehead and turned to look at Greg.

"Anything I can help with?" he asked. He looked tired, worn out, and frustrated. Greg felt bad for him. He had really been put through the wringer since he had been partners with Sherlock. Although, Greg had no idea what his life was really like before he came into this one.

"Sure, mate. Will you get the lettuces out and rinse them for the salad? I think Anthea put them in the crisper on the bottom." He pointed to the fridge. John rolled up his shirt sleeves and grabbed the packages of lettuce from the drawer, opening them up and bringing them to the sink to rinse. "I hope you like shrimp. I'm making a nice Scampi with fettuccini and salad for dinner. I've also got a Victoria sponge cooling." He smiled. John had an incredulous look on his face. "What?" Greg asked.

"You're really smitten, huh? Baking sponge cake? For Mycroft Holmes?" John smiled at him and shook his head.

"Whatever, you've been snogging Sherlock like a school girl. Don't tell me that you wouldn't do anything for him. I can see it all over your face and I'm not the best detective." Greg laughed as he scraped the parsley to the edge of the cutting board. John's face went beet red and he turned away. Greg let it go, but he was sure he was going to hear about it at some point. "It's been a long time since I got to cook for anyone. It helps keep my mind off troubles." They continued to work in silence until Greg's mobile chimed in his pocket. It was Mycroft.

"New Message from: M. Holmes

I hope you have found everything

you need in the pantry. I do look

forward to eating dinner with you."

Greg smiled at it. The words sent his stomach fluttering like he was getting asked to a school dance. He looked around at the kitchen that was in complete disarray and decided he needed to clean up before Mycroft got back home. He couldn't imagine this kitchen had seen this much use in a long time. The pots and pans were near new and the cooker was clean on the inside, as if Mycroft had a lifetime of takeaway. Greg wondered if it had to do with a full staff that normally took care of such things like meticulously cleaning the kitchen appliances. There was a full stocked dry pantry as well as perishables in the refrigerator before Anthea had brought the ingredients that he had requested. The supplies he had used for baking were scattered on a side worktop with a marble surface, perfect for rolling out dough or cookies. That will come in handy later. John had moved to another side, drying the greens and tearing them into a large bowl. Greg gathered his dirty baking implements and put them in the sink to rinse before placing them into the dishwasher. Then he pulled his mobile back out to send a message back to Mycroft.

"New Message to: M. Holmes

Yes, Anthea got everything as

asked and you already had

everything else I needed.

You coming back soon then?

Bring Sherlock too?"

He put the phone back into his pocket and finished the washing up. His prepping was almost done and it would only take a few minutes to make the meal once everyone arrived, so he set about cleaning the shrimp in the sink at the kitchen island. Halfway through, he got a text from Mycroft.

"New Message from: M. Holmes

We're on our way now"

The flatbread was sitting on the baking tray, waiting to go in the cooker and the salad was done, Greg just needed to put the pasta in the water and start the shrimp.

"Would you do the honors of setting the table?" Greg asked John. He was feeling pretty domestic about now, and despite the fact that John and Sherlock would be joining them, Greg still wanted the romantic dinner he had planned for Mycroft. He wasn't going to be shy about what he wanted with him either. "The plates are in the top cupboard and the cutlery is in that drawer." He pointed around the kitchen for John who gave him a slightly puzzled look, but Greg ignored it. "Don't start, if you want to talk about Mycroft and me, you'll have to fess up to what happened between Sherlock and you." Greg winked at him. John just stood there with his eyes narrowed and his mouth agape as if he was going to retort, but instead, he started to gather the plates for the table.

"Yeah, I can already tell by the look on your face. You'll eventually need an ear but you're just not ready yet, right? Probably still trying to figure it out yourself. Maybe after this has blown over we can grab a pint and gossip about our Holmes boys. Until then, don't worry, just roll with it." Greg had set the pot on the hob for the pasta and was grabbing a chilled bottle of white from the refrigerator.

"Here." John said, setting five wine glasses on the island in front of Greg for him to fill. Greg smiled. He hadn't seen Sherlock drink wine besides the controlled amount of champagne at John's wedding. In fact, he knew that Sherlock wasn't one to eat while on a case, so he was hoping Mycroft and John were going to make him sit and eat at the table like an adult. "What?" John asked him.

"Are _you_ going to force Sherlock to eat, and drink wine? He's gotten real stubborn over the years, not like he was when I first met him. I didn't think anyone could make him do anything at this point." He nudged John in the arm, making him blush again.

"Alright, I'll just say one thing for now and that's it. He listens to me. He'd do anything for me and I don't take that lightly because I'd do anything for him," John said. "He doesn't take care of himself sometimes to the point of exhaustion. You've seen him on cases before, I know it. Looks like he's on drugs again? Well, it's just that he hasn't slept or eaten for days. I've gotten used to just putting food in front of his mouth and most of the time, he just eats without thinking, but sometimes I need to encourage him a bit. I'm hoping the wine will settle his nerves too." He took the glasses of wine, two at a time to the dining table and leaving one for Greg as he cooked. He looked around the room for something and then spotted what he wanted. He found a pair of candle sticks on the buffet and placed them near the center of the table.

"Here, use this." Greg tossed him the lighter from his pocket. Turns out, John was a bit of a romantic as well. _Nothing awkward about a couple of guy friends, dating a couple of brothers and having dinner together with the landlady and a baby. Nah._ He dropped the pasta in the pot and turned a knob for another burner and placed a pan on it. It felt good being in the kitchen cooking for other people again. It was one of the things he used to love to do for Cindy. He didn't always have time to make dinner, or even eat dinner for that matter, but when he did, it was his favorite. It was one of the things his father had taught him. His father had learned it from his French mother and it was something they wanted to keep in the family. Greg's mother was not a particularly good cook, but she was happy Greg was able to get the trait.

Greg put some olive oil in the hot pan and then tossed in the chopped garlic and shrimp. The pan sizzled, filling the kitchen with a rich scent. He opened the cooker and tossed in the tray of flatbread, setting the timer for just a few minutes so he didn't end up with burnt bread, something he had a tendency to do. He heard a noise in the foyer as Mycroft and Sherlock came in through the front door, the gentle murmur of their voices echoing into the kitchen. They turned the corner just in time to see Greg tossing the shrimp in the air and placing the pan back on the hob. He turned and smiled to see Mycroft's slightly shocked face as he looked around the kitchen and dining room. It was set up lovely, Greg had to admit. This obviously wasn't the first time John had set a dining table for someone he loved.

Greg portioned a pad of butter and placed it into the pan as well as a splash of the wine, then he turned back to the Holmes brothers.

"Welcome back, I hope you two are hungry." He watched Mycroft breathe the scent in and smile back. Sherlock looked disgusted and trudged off into the dining room, grabbing a glass of wine and downing it in a single gulp.

"Woah, Sherlock!" John reached out to try and stop him but it was too late. Sherlock placed the glass back on the table and made his way to the buffet where a decanter and some glasses sat. He poured himself a finger of what was in it and gulped that quickly too, then poured another and sat down at the table.

"Rough day?" Greg asked Mycroft. The shrimp were done so he put the pan on the cold side of the hob and then drained the pasta. The timer went off just in time and he took the flatbread out and placed the tray on a pad.

"I rather think it's the exquisitely romantic setting in the dining room." Mycroft put his hand on Greg's shoulder. "Thank you." He whispered towards his ear. Greg assumed that he didn't want to make Sherlock throw a full childish fit so he left it at that. That was all Greg needed though.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

"Oh, isn't this lovely!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed as she claimed her seat and grabbed her wine glass. She sat next to Rosie who had a plate of pasta and some finger veggies and cut up shrimp.

They all sat down at the dining table as Greg finished dishing the food into serving bowls. John was amazed at how comfortable Greg was in the kitchen, and Mycroft's kitchen no less. He wondered how many times Greg had been here. He himself didn't find it all that inviting. He preferred more cozy seats, soft fabrics and even more furnishings. Mycroft's home had warm tones and rich wood, but it felt cold and stark with its tall ceilings and long hallways. He felt more like he was staying at a bed and breakfast, which he could get used to, but he didn't feel at home like Greg seemed to.

"This looks marvelous, Gregory. Thank you," Mycroft cooed at Greg. John cringed, he hoped it was only internal. It's not that he didn't want to see Greg happy, he was just still having a hard time understanding the appeal. He knew it wasn't any of his business, but the question remained.

"John did the salad, thank him," Greg replied, almost too formally. John only assumed they were trying to be more business in front of Sherlock. But maybe they were always like this with each other? John tried not to waste too much time on it.

"So," John started, "How did it go at the crime scene?" He was putting some flatbread on his plate and passed it to Sherlock with a nudge. Sherlock was fixated on the empty plate in front of him, seemingly avoiding looking at Greg or Mycroft.

"Her heart was cut out of her chest, looked to be by a rather sharp blade but an inexperienced hand. Quite a hack job really, blood everywh-"

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, pale and wide eyed.

"That's enough work talk at the table. I don't think Mrs. Hudson wants to hear about it, considering the victim and all. Maybe we can discuss this amongst ourselves after, when we're all ready for it?" Greg cut him off. John was shocked by Greg's sudden authority. Mycroft looked pleasantly amused. Sherlock looked disgusted again and took another sip of the second glass of scotch he had poured. There was an awkward silence. John grabbed a piece of flatbread and put it on Sherlock's plate. Then he proceeded to place some pasta and shrimp on his own plate before adding some to Sherlock's as well, then did the same with the salad.

"Eat," John whispered. He didn't want to embarrass him any further but he wasn't above playing the demanding card either. Sherlock didn't move.

"Sherlock Holmes, eat the damn food!" John growled as quietly as he could. From the corner of his eye, he saw Greg stiffen his back but Mycroft was unperturbed. Sherlock turned his head slowly to look at John sideways. His shoulders slumped to a sulk and he had lost the fight in his eyes. "Please. You need your energy. Doctor's orders," John said. Sherlock immediately picked up his fork and stabbed a few shrimp, pushing them around the plate before giving up and putting the fork into his mouth. Despite his reluctance to initially eat, after that first bite, he continued without further coaxing.

There were quiet murmurs, groans of approval, and sighs around the table as they finished their meal. Greg seemed pleased with the results and he kept watching everyone's reactions as they ate. John watched Sherlock all but lick his plate, which made him smile. It meant Sherlock would sleep through the night. He always slept on a full stomach, and with the alcohol he was consuming, it should be a soundless sleep. They finished their main entrees and Mycroft stood up, taking his plate and then Greg's before walking around the table and collecting Mrs. Hudson's, Sherlock's and John's.

_What has gotten into Mycroft?_ John had never seen him act so… so human before. He had manners, charisma, and he was sincerely nice. It was hard to wrap his head around. It could be a ruse, but to what purpose?

"Thank you, Mycroft. Really, you really don't have to be so…nice," John said as Mycroft picked his empty plate off the table.

"Dr. Watson, I know you have no reason to trust me, but I genuinely care for your safety and comfort. I appreciate what you do for my brother, and I hope that you will come to accept my presence in your life in a positive light." Mycroft gave what looked like an honest smile, as creepy as it was.

"Ugh," Sherlock retorted from next to John. "Don't make me lose my already precarious dinner." He put his elbow on the table and placed his chin in his hand.

"Sherlock, stop being a prat. Mycroft, thank you. And thank you for protecting us." John locked eyes with him and nodded. Mycroft nodded back in acknowledgment.

"Victoria Sponge!" Greg blurted out. "I made a Victoria Sponge cake, with raspberries and cream. I hope you all saved room." Greg stood up to bring the cake to the table. John and Sherlock groaned at the sight of it, but Mycroft stared at it with rapt wonder. The whipped cream was piled high with dainty raspberry decorations, fit for a tea service at Buckingham. Mrs. Hudson smiled widely and clapped her hands together.

"We'll leave you two to your devices," Sherlock said to Mycroft and his cake. "Come John, I need to review the facts of the case." Sherlock stood up and grabbed John's arm. John looked to Mrs. Hudson and Rosie.

"Don't worry, dear. Rosie and I want some cake and then I'll draw her a nice warm bath." Mrs. Hudson smiled at him knowingly, even if he himself didn't understand what was happening. Sherlock pulled on his arm and marched him out of the room and into the hallway leading to the rooms upstairs.

"Sherlock, stop! What is going on?" John demanded, wrenching his arm out of Sherlock's grip and causing him to turn around facing him. John crossed his arms in front of his chest and narrowed his eyes at him. "What's this all about?" Sherlock huffed a bit, apparently looking for the right words. _Did Sherlock really hate seeing his brother happy? Didn't he say himself that he set them up?_ It didn't make sense.

"I...I don't know what I'd do without you, John. But I can't show it the same way as you do. I can't…show it like _they_ do out there. I'm a private person, John, and I'm not used to having _feelings_ like this. I don't know how to let them out. I can't cook you dinner. I'm not comfortable with intimate contact in front of other people." He was hanging his head a bit. _Ashamed, maybe?_ Sherlock looked John in the eyes and grabbed his hand. "What can I do to show you? How can you be happy with me when I can't do what you need?"

"Oh, Sherlock…." John's heart swelled. He really did love this man. He was more sensitive than anyone else knew and it fueled John's protective side all the more. He jumped forward and embraced Sherlock hard, twisting his hands in the back of Sherlock's shirt. "Honestly, this is all very new to me. I can only guarantee one thing: that I feel the same way about you. I don't know how to proceed. I don't know how to navigate this, but I think if we just take one step at a time, we'll be just fine." John pulled back from him and grabbed his hand again. "Now, come on, let's go relax and see if you can get some sleep."

John led Sherlock up the stairs and into the bedroom that looked to be one that Sherlock used periodically. It was rather barren but for the wardrobe that held some clothes of his. John sat on the bed and held his arms out for Sherlock to join him. Sherlock looked around the room once, checking the closed door behind him, before crawling into John's side. He rested his mess of hair on John's chest and hesitantly put one arm around John's midsection.

John sighed and placed his hand on Sherlock's head, caressing him gently and wrapping his fingers in the curls. He was glad that this was something Sherlock enjoyed. It was soothing and the kind of intimacy that John craved. After a minute, John pushed himself down to lie on the bed, Sherlock followed suit and kept his head curled into John, not looking him in the face. John wasn't sure if he was trying to hide from him, or if he was just focused on John's heartbeat. It didn't really matter at this point, John was determined to make sure he felt loved and safe. Safe to be himself. He continued to caress his hair and with his other hand, he rubbed his back in gentle circles.

"I love you. You know that, right? I know that you're worried about what this is, us, I mean. But we'll figure it out together. I want you as you are." John squeezed him a bit to emphasize his point, then he craned his neck to kiss Sherlock's hair. Sherlock smoothed his hand over John's chest and then reached up to lay his palm over the scar on John's shoulder beneath his jumper.

"Yes, John. I know. I…I feel the same way." 


	12. Guilty Parties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quite a bit of fluff in which John and Greg have a little chat, John and Greg learn more about what really happened with Moriarty, and the Holmes brothers act like children.
> 
> ""You really want to know what it's like being with a Holmes?" John asked, raising his glass. "That," he angled his glass towards the staircase, "that's it right there." He laughed."  
> .  
> .  
> .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost forgot to post today! I've been sewing masks for my coworkers since we are all required to wear them during work now.  
> .  
> .  
> .

**Mycroft's Manor**

Mycroft dipped his hands in the soapy water and grabbed another plate. After dinner, Mrs. Hudson took Rosie up for a bath and the house was quiet after, just the sound of the water running and the porcelain clinking together. It was a strange feeling having people in the house with him. He had no time for loneliness in the past. He had pushed it aside and focused on his career, on being indispensable. And it had worked. He had got himself a position that he made himself, a consultant for all the major players. He liked that type of control in his life. Nothing major happened without going by his desk first. He had power and money, and with a wonderful anonymity. But it wasn't much now without something to do with it. He wanted to share it now. His thoughts were interrupted by Greg who was putting the clean dishes away, humming some song under his breath. Mycroft finished the last dish and put it on the rack to dry, then he turned around and put his back against the worktop.

"What is that you're humming?" He asked softly. He thought he recognized the tune but the source slipped his mind.

"Eric Clapton, Tears in Heaven. I love how soothing it is. Do you like it?" Greg reached out and put his hands on Mycroft's hips, gently swaying him to the tempo in his head. Greg's happiness was infectious and it hit Mycroft like a rip current. He smiled at Greg and put his hands on his hips as well, swaying to the tempo he could remember.

"It's been a long time since I heard it and I'm not opposed to it, though I do prefer more classical music normally." Greg looked a little disappointed at that so he added, "But I like to see you in such a good mood, so I will listen to whatever music makes you smile." Mycroft leaned forward and pulled Greg into a kiss. He had to admit to himself, he had missed Greg's smell. It was only this morning that he had been in his arms but it felt like a lifetime ago. Greg hummed into his lips, a sweet and seductive sound that made Mycroft wish the visitors in his house were all gone. He pulled back before reaching a point of no return. Greg smiled in understanding, letting a gap between them grow.

"How about we grab a few glasses and have a seat until the boys come back so we can discuss the next steps, huh? Because if we don't, I'm taking you to bed and I won't take 'goldfish' for an answer." Greg's eyes were dark but he smiled before he kissed him one last time.

"You drive a hard bargain, Inspector, but I suppose you're right. We need to find this Moran and get this over with." Mycroft led them into the same room from that first night. The fireplace was cold and dark, so he set about placing fresh logs in as well as some tinder, arranging it orderly and quickly. He grabbed an ornate box on the mantle and pulled a match out, striking it on the stone of the fireplace before tossing it into the structure he had made.

Greg had settled into the settee he had chosen last time they were here, stretching his legs out to warm his feet on the growing fire. Mycroft smiled at him. It really was fascinating how fast they relaxed around each other, as if they had always been affectionate to one another. Greg patted the seat next to him and smiled deviously, encouraging Mycroft to sit down.

"Is that really a good idea?" Mycroft asked with a hint of a smirk. He poured a couple of glasses of the good scotch and handed one to Greg. Greg laughed, his eyes and teeth glinting in the firelight. At any other time, Gregory was an easy going, kind man. But he was a beast. A blood-thirsty savage beast, and Mycroft knew it.

"I'll be good, I swear it." Greg was a sadist, by all accounts, or so Mycroft determined. But his smile was so inviting that Mycroft couldn't resist. He sat down next to him, keeping a respectable space between them. Sherlock may have set them up, but Mycroft was sure that seeing his brother even touching thighs with someone would throw him into a fit, or at the very least, bring on a barrage of insults and quips. Neither were what he wanted to deal with tonight.

"So, uh, what did you see today? At the care home?" Greg shifted in his seat a bit. "I mean, short of a bloody body, I assume."

"I'm not sure if you know this about me, Gregory, but I'm not one for gore. I only stepped in the room for a minute. Sherlock did a full sweep of it and found something worthy of further investigation; a gold watch. He believes it indicates a time in which to meet Moran. I'm afraid he'll want to go on his own and I don't believe it's safe for him. I need to keep an eye on him." Mycroft took a sip of the scotch and watched the flames dance. Upstairs had been quiet since Mrs. Hudson had gone up with Rosie. Mycroft wondered if his initial assessment was correct and that Sherlock and John would be coming down the stairs any minute.

"What does that mean then? Are you planning to follow him to each crime scene, send a group of minions to watch him?" Greg looked worried and Mycroft instantly regretted what he said. He didn't want to worry him with details, he just wanted to protect him.

"Yes. Whatever it takes. Sherlock will undoubtedly sneak off to do this on his own, and I'm not willing to leave it all on his shoulders. This is all my fault." Mycroft hung his head a bit. He really didn't want to have this conversation.

"What do you mean?" Greg looked at him skeptically. He was so honest and pure, he probably couldn't even imagine doing something so terrible to someone you love. Greg would never hurt a family member. It wasn't as if Mycroft intended to hurt Sherlock. He just underestimated Moriarty's influence and power. He didn't know the network was so vast, the damage that could be caused. If it had just been violence, he could have stopped it, but it was more than that. A reputation can be a hard thing to kill, but Moriarty was smarter than he thought. He had more resources than Mycroft had anticipated. He should have known better, but it was too late after it started. He wished he could take it all back.

"Mycroft was the one who told Moriarty about me." He was so deep in thought, he didn't hear Sherlock and John come in. John looked angry as usual. Sherlock looked annoyed though, which was a bit of a relief. "It was the plan. It's in the past and we need to move forward." Sherlock dismissed the conversation and sat down in a wingback chair.

"Wait, what?" Greg whipped his head back towards Mycroft. "Sherlock faked his death because of you? We lost him for two years because of you? We all had to mourn him, because of you?" Greg stood up and placed his glass on the side table.

"Gregory…" Mycroft tried to talk him down, but his heart wasn't in it. He knew he deserved it. It was his fault and he would suffer the consequences. This is why he had never pursued a relationship before. He had too much to deal with when it came to Sherlock, let alone his career. He very rarely had to answer to anyone for his actions, and he was thankful for that. It made life ever so organised.

"You? He's your brother!" Greg spat at him. Mycroft swallowed hard and dropped his head. Greg started pacing, the sound of his shoes slamming on the hardwood floor echoed across the room. Each step was like a dagger in Mycroft's chest. He stood up, ready to flee the mess he had made, but he was interrupted by John.

"What plan?" John demanded. "You mean that it was planned for Mycroft to 'leak' your details to Moriarty? You both planned this?"

"You didn't notice that the information was close, but not quite accurate? Slightly wrong details in the mix? Of course it was planned," Sherlock said. He rolled his eyes with impatience. John pulled his lips in a line and glared at Sherlock, and then at Mycroft.

"Greg, he paid for it already." Greg stopped to look at John. "Look at him. Does he look like he doesn't regret it? He already has to live with it, don't make him suffer for it." All eyes turned to look at John. He stood beside Sherlock's chair, his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"You're okay with this?" Greg looked incredulous.

"No offense, Greg, but you don't know all the details. You weren't there in the thick of it, you weren't there at Sherrinford. Mycroft offered his own life for Sherlock, for me. He already paid for his mistakes." John defending him was the last thing that Mycroft expected and he was relieved that John neglected to mention his real mistake in letting Moriarty and Eurus spend any amount of time together. It made him feel weak and worse than ever. He downed his scotch and left the glass on a shelf on his way out of the room.

As he reached the stairs, a hand caught his upper arm and held him back.

"Mycroft, wait." Greg all but whispered to him. "I…I'm sorry. It's just that we all…we went through hell during that time. We all thought Sherlock was dead, John was suicidal, Anderson drove himself crazy- crazier than normal, I was put on suspension. I almost lost my job, for Christ's sake! So to find out that it was because of you, it's all a little much. I'm sorry." He loosened his grip and stepped closer, his body heat warming the space around Mycroft instantly. "I'm so sorry. Do you forgive me?" He leaned close and put his forehead to Mycroft's.

"You did nothing wrong, Gregory. You do not need forgiveness. It's I who needs it from you. I have made grievous mistakes in my life, ones that I will not be able to correct by using government resources or money. I don't even know if I deserve it-" Greg gently lifted his chin and looked him straight in the eye. He held his gaze for an agonizing minute before he put his lips to his. It was a bittersweet redemption. Mycroft still didn't believe he deserved it. It was too good for him, for what he'd done. He pulled back, putting his hand on Greg's chest.

"Gregory, this won't be solved by a kiss. No matter how wonderful it is." That made Greg smile something devilish. He leaned back in, cupping Mycroft's jaw and smashed into him with force. Mycroft couldn't help but respond in kind, opening his mouth to him like an offering. He was sick with it, with the want to please Greg, to be redeemed. But with all the lies he had told, no matter the reasons, all of the lives he had turned upside down, he needed some way to make it right. And being with Greg was not the way to do that. He pushed away one more time.

"Stop, Gregory. We need…I need to fix this. I need to make things right by my brother, by all of the people I've hurt. I don't feel right getting a reward when I've done nothing but terrible things lately." Mycroft gently ran his knuckles down Greg's cheek. Greg's big brown eyes were like a puppy's, so full of sadness and hope. It was going to be hell denying himself anything that this man could give, but the guilt would eat him alive.

"Then I guess the only thing to do would be to get this Moran bloke and end this, right?" Mycroft nodded. "Then let's get back and discuss the next steps with Sherlock and John." He grabbed Mycroft's hand and led him back to the sitting room where Sherlock and John were quietly drinking their demons away. Greg grabbed the decanter and filled up their glasses before sitting back down on the settee and nodding his head to encourage Mycroft to do the same. Greg held his glass out towards the rest of the group.

"So, what's the plan, geniuses?"

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Greg listened to the Holmes brothers go through the evidence. He wanted to pay attention, but he was distracted by Mycroft's dilemma. He understood redemption, he understood wanting to make right the wrongs of your past. It broke his heart to know that Mycroft was so guilt ridden that he felt like he didn't deserve to have happiness. Greg drank his scotch in silence, watching Mycroft's face. He wanted to hold him, comfort him, cover him in tender kisses.

"That's not an option, Sherlock," Mycroft was saying. "it's too dangerous. When we find out where and when he wants to meet, I'm going with you, along with backup."

"No," Sherlock retorted. "He'll anticipate that. The meeting spot will not be accessible for your minions, and they'll just get in the way, same with you. You'll just slow me down." Sherlock was pacing now, agitated with his brother and the impossible situation they were in. Greg wasn't sure how he felt about it. In a way, he wanted to be involved, but he did trust them to find the guy and take care of it. He knew that when push came to shove, he would be able to make the final arrest, or Mycroft would call in MI-6 to take the guy away.

"Oh, Sherlock, stop trying to be a martyr. It's led you astray before. Now, until we hear about the next body, I'm going to sleep."Mycroft stood up and walked out.

Greg watched him leave and felt antsy. He had brought his bags to Mycroft's bedroom, anticipating staying there with him, but after their conversation, he wasn't sure if he was still wanted. He looked to John, but all he got was a raise of his eyebrows. Greg shrugged it off. If Mycroft wanted space, he would get it.

"Lestrade, don't let my brother push you away. He's never allowed himself happiness, no matter what's going on in his life. You just have to keep being fervent with him. Don't back down, not for a second." Sherlock took a sip from his glass.

"I…yeah, thanks," Greg mumbled. Sherlock nodded then got up from his chair and went upstairs. John looked over at Greg and smiled.

"You really want to know what it's like being with a Holmes?" John asked, raising his glass. "That," he angled his glass towards the staircase, "that's it right there." He laughed. "They push you away, they call you in, they say rude things to you, and then they say the most insightful, sweetest things and surprise you. You're never bored when they're around." He took a big swing of the glass. When Greg said nothing, John continued. "Sometimes, I want to punch him in that pretty mouth of his. But really, he means well. He just doesn't know how to express himself. Which is really strange because- Have you met Mr. and Mrs. Holmes? They are lovely, really. Average people. It makes no sense, yeah?" He shook his head and took another drink.

" _Average_ , average? Like Sunday brunch, put-on-your-Wellies, family film night average?" Greg scoffed. "I don't believe it."

"It's true, we were there for Christmas. Mummy Holmes made what looked like a wonderful meal, but we never got the chance to eat it since Sherlock drugged everyone and then he shot Magnussen." John gestured wildly in the air. "It was a real festive day, to say the least."

"Ah, right. So, does your boyfriend always drug his family on the holidays? Or is it for special occasions only?" Greg asked with a wink.

"He's not my boyfriend. I'm not ga-" John cut himself short and exhaled sharply. "It's, uh, it's complicated. And no, he's only drugged his friends and family a couple of times." John's laugh sounded like the exhaust of a sputtering lorry, slightly hesitant but insistent. Greg knew the feeling. _Why did these Holmes boys cause such extreme emotions, one way or the other?_ John was right, Sherlock could be brash, harsh even, but he was always trying to do the right thing. Maybe the reason he solved crimes wasn't because he was trying to help people, that was just a by-product of solving it. He did it for the pure joy of the chase, the satisfaction of solving a puzzle. John was the angel on Sherlock's shoulder, reminding him that there are real people behind the crimes he solved. And because of John, Sherlock had been becoming more aware of the people he effected. It made him a better person.

Sherlock really had come a long way since Greg first met him. He smiled now, and not just in a malicious way either. He was more personable, if that were something he could be. Greg even saw him eat, which was a unicorn situation if there ever was one. John was really good for Sherlock, there was no denying it. And Sherlock was good for John. Greg didn't know him before the few years ago when he came onto the crime scene in Lauriston Gardens, but John seemed to have a newfound sense of purpose around Sherlock. John was a soldier, through and through and his duty was Sherlock now. He held his shoulders back, his head high. He had a family he could be proud of. Greg envied him just a bit. He liked kids, he liked Rosie. Greg's nieces were rays of sunshine on a cloudy day and he looked forward to their next visit.

"Speaking of family- Harry? Have you talked to your sister in awhile?" Greg asked the smiling soldier opposite him. Last he heard, Harriet was out of rehab and doing much better. She was even reconciling with Clara, her ex-wife. Greg had little experience with reconciling, but by the time Cindy had left for good, he wasn't looking to reconcile again. She hadn't changed one bit. She was still the lying, cheating, manipulative person she had been. His part in it was not insignificant, but in order to move on, he had to forgive himself and learn from it. Remembering her indiscretions also helped.

"Yeah, actually. I called her when we got here earlier. I mentioned moving back with Sherlock, which made her happy. I guess she…she had always hoped that there was something more between him and I. I didn't deny it or confirm it. But I feel like she was hoping that she wasn't alone. That she wasn't a 'freak' or something." He swallowed hard.

"Why, because she married a woman? Doesn't sound like something deserving of 'freak' status, if you ask me." Granted, Greg's family was pretty open minded.

"My parents were a bit on the traditional side. They didn't take the news well when she came out. Disowned her and the like. I went off to the military shortly after and I think she took it as a way for me to not take sides. That's why we haven't been too close," John confessed.

"I can see why you've been so stubborn about everything then." John probably still felt as if being in a same-sex relationship was some disgusting sin, something instilled by his parents. What a terrible way to live, thinking that you were some sort of abomination for feelings that you couldn't control. It explained a lot about John and his previously unresolved feelings about Sherlock. He must have been in agony after Sherlock's fall, not to mention when Sherlock came back and John was on the verge of marrying Mary. He had been in love with two people, was _still_ in love with two people. Speaking of which….

"Why don't you run after your tall, dark, and high-functioning sociopath, eh? I'm going to hit the bog and then it's off to Bedfordshire." John smiled at that and nodded before placing his empty glass on the coffee table.

"'Night," he said as he reached the steps.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

John made his way to the room he had selected as his, such so because it shared a set of French doors with an adjoining smaller room perfect for Rosie. Through the glass of the doors, he could see Mrs. Hudson reading in a rocking chair next to Rosie's cot, a small beehive shaped lamp lighting the chair and a small area around it. John let out a little chuckle at the lamp. Obviously, Sherlock had either requested it from Mycroft or had purchased a second one to keep here for her. When Mrs. Hudson saw John, she smiled and stood up, putting her book on the nappy-changing table. She pushed the French doors open slightly to whisper in to John.

"She's all bathed up and asleep, dearie. What a sweet little babe she is, she babbled the whole way through it too. She's got a lot to say now, you know?" He knew what she was trying to say. He had been preoccupied with everything else lately, he was neglecting his daughter. He vowed to spend some more quality time with her. Maybe being here at the Casa del Mycroft was a good time as any.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I owe you one. Well, more than one, really."

"Think nothing of it, dearie. I never had any children of my own." She looked wistful for a moment before continuing. "Now, you get yourself to sleep," She said, tapping the frame of the door gently. "You look like hell, pardon my language." She smiled at him as she closed the door and left through the nursery.

John made sure she was gone before he stripped out of his jumper and trousers and climbed into the bed. It was softer than he was used to, the sheets were probably the highest thread count possible, made from some sort of ancient Egyptian-made cotton. Like something a king, or more likely a pharaoh, would have. He moved his limbs a bit against it to feel the brush against his skin. Luxuriating in the sensation, he laid his head down and rubbed his cheek against the pillow. He closed his eyes and smiled. It was a guilty, filthy smile, for a guilty, filthy thing to do. John moved his whole body, toes to cheek, up and down in the sheets, grinding his hips a little.

A creak of the floor near the door startled him out of his drunken pillow petting. He looked up to see Sherlock standing in the doorway with his head bowed. He was wearing a worn out shirt, pyjama pants and a blue dressing gown. He stood as if waiting for a command.

"Sherlock, you scared me half to death! What are you doing? I thought you were off to bed," John said abruptly. He pulled the blanket over his lap and sat up.

"I could ask you the same thing," Sherlock said, cocking his eyebrows at him. "I thought you were coming to bed, so I waited and then I heard you in here." He looked around the room as if trying to find the appeal to John. John caught his eye and pointed towards the French doors, and his baby sleeping in the next room. "Right. Of course," Sherlock replied. John cleared his throat and looked around nervously.

"Did you want to sleep in here tonight?" John ventured. Sherlock closed the bedroom door and crept up to the empty side of the bed. After he dropped his dressing gown on the floor, he pulled back the bedclothes with a flourish and flopped down on his side, facing away from John. John smiled and scoffed, shaking his head a little. He turned off the lamp on the side table and settled under the blanket, laying on his back. He was completely unsure of what to do. This was uncharted territory, just like everything else lately.

Before he could make a decision, Sherlock scooted back on the bed, putting his back against John's side. It was nerve-wracking, not knowing what he could or should do around Sherlock. _The dynamic had changed, but had it?_ He had no idea if acting like they were a couple was appropriate behind closed doors, if at all. He didn't know if touching Sherlock now would mean something more than it had before, or if it always meant something more than just a touch. And what next? Were they ready for something physical between them? John wasn't sure if he was ready for that and he hoped that Sherlock wasn't expecting something so soon.

This probably wasn't the time to be thinking about this stuff anyway, what with the psychopath killer on the loose and all.

John turned and put his arm around Sherlock, placing his hand on his chest, then he put his face in Sherlock's hair. It smelled sweet like lavender and the soft tendrils tickled his nose. Sleep might be out of the question for John, but he had to admit to himself that having someone in his bed, especially Sherlock, was a soothing feeling. It was odd, but it felt right.

"Sherlock? What, uh," John started. "What happens if we don't catch Moran?" John's breath hitched while he waited for a response. If he had to lose Sherlock again, he didn't know if he could handle it. He was already an absent father so far, if he lost someone so close to him again, his heart couldn't take it.

"Failure is not an option, John. It simply is not. Moran is not like Moriarty, or technically, Richard Brook. He's not cunning or clever. He's just a follower, seeking revenge," Sherlock said.

"Wait, what do you mean 'technically Richard Brook'?" John pulled away a bit in confusion. Sherlock sighed.

"That was what he wanted me to know, wanted me to figure out. That Moriarty was a fictional character, his nom de plume for his consulting criminal business. He really was Richard Brook, the actor. He was moonlighting as a criminal and using the pseudonym 'James Moriarty' and that was how he made me look like a fake. He only miscalculated one thing- that I wouldn't actually kill myself, just make everyone think I did." Sherlock settled in on John's side once more, shifting a bit back and forth. John hummed in understanding. Obviously, Richard Brook also miscalculated the amount of friends Sherlock had and the dedication of his brother to help him out, not to mention that Sherlock was smarter than him.

It was a dangerous move on Sherlock's part. Despite his intellect, people are completely unpredictable and having a contingency for each possible scenario must have taken time and resources that Mycroft had to have had a hand in. The more John learned about Mycroft, the more he respected him. Sherlock definitely had faith in him, and if Sherlock had any ounce of respect for Mycroft, it should be good enough for John.

"I guess with Richard Brooke gone, that would make you the smartest person in the world," John said with a haughty air of sarcasm.

"I wouldn't suggest that," Sherlock replied, his voice starting to become deeper as sleep started to take him.

"Really? That may be the closest thing to modesty I've ever heard you say."

"That's not modesty, there's just no reliable way to test the hypothesis," Sherlock yawned.

John tightened his grip around Sherlock. _Failure is not an option._ No, it definitely is not.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Greg downed the rest of his glass and set it next to Mycroft's. The stairs leading to Mycroft's bedroom were daunting but he ascended them nonetheless. He didn't know what to say to him. He could only imagine the weight Mycroft felt. Carrying that around for so long could cause someone to do something stupid, something rash. Mycroft may be looking out for Sherlock, but Greg needed to look out for Mycroft. Mycroft wasn't helpless, but this really wasn't a time to be making mistakes due to his grief over it.

He reached the bedroom door and hesitated in knocking. Instead, he turned the knob slowly and pushed. Mycroft was sitting on the side of the bed, his suit intact and his face in his hands. Greg approached him cautiously and laid a hand on his shoulder. Mycroft hummed in acknowledgement but he didn't look up.

"Hey. Everything is going to be a'ight," Greg said. He sat down next to him and gathered the younger man in his arms, pulling him nearly into his lap. "You didn't mean to do anything wrong. Let it go, okay? Everything is going to be a'ight." It became a mantra, he repeated it over and over again, rocking Mycroft gently. He held him until he felt the soft shudders of sobs. When Mycroft's shoulders began to shake, Greg squeezed him tighter. He stroked his hair and wiped his face of the tears spilling down. He tenderly kissed his closed eyes and tried to pull the sadness from them. He held him until the sobs subsided and Mycroft's breathing levelled out.

"Let's get you comfortable, okay?" Greg started to undress him, but Mycroft wasn't making it easy. Like a petulant child, he shrugged and stiffened his limbs. "Really? Stop being a baby. Help me to help you!" Greg laughed, causing Mycroft to pull his lips with the effort of holding in his own smile. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Now, I'm not trying to be cheeky here, but get your arse out of these clothes." Mycroft relented and helped as needed, but he let Greg take the lead.

Once he was down to his vest and pants, Greg pulled back the bedclothes and made a spot for him. After tucking him in, Greg divulged himself of his own attire and climbed in behind him, cradling him like a broken toy. He started to hum again, the same song he was earlier. The sound rumbled from deep in his throat and it vibrated against Mycroft's head making him gasp and chuckle and sob at the same time.

"Shh, darlin'. Just relax and let me hold you until you fall asleep. I'll be here when you wake up. I'm not going anywhere, no matter what," Greg whispered before resuming his humming. Mycroft turned in his arms to face him. His grey eyes were swollen and red around the edges and his cheeks were flushed. Greg wished he could stay here forever with him in his arms, but only if he could take the pain away.

"It was all me," Mycroft said. "I had Moriarty. I could have locked him up for good, killed him, but I didn't. And then I gave Eurus time with him, just five minutes but that was all it took. They planned that whole attack because of me. People have died because of my carelessness, Gregory. I've hurt countless people." He looked up into Greg's eyes. "How can I make things right?"

Greg ran his fingertips along Mycroft's jaw. Then he kissed him sweetly.

"You've already started to make things right, love. You've been forgiven already. And once we get Moran, we can all move forward, a'ight? You just need to have faith that it will all work out in the end. I'm going to be there, every step of the way, you're not alone. Let me carry you, just for tonight." Greg wrapped an ankle around Mycroft's calf and pulled him in closer.

"Gregory, I..."

"Shh, love. Go to sleep." Greg stroked Mycroft's head as his breathing evened out and he drifted off to sleep in his arms.


	13. Grave Peril

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter in which John is disturbed by a crime scene, Greg indulges in PDA, Mycroft is annoyed, and Sherlock is frustrated.
> 
> ""Stop tapping in Morse code, you're disturbing my concentration," Sherlock snapped back."  
> .  
> .  
> .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a lot shorter than I remembered writing, my apologies. I started fostering some tiny kittens from my work (local humane society) and they are controlling my life right now. If I get done with the chapter I'm currently writing, I'll add another chapter this week. I've been so lazy about writing lately that I'm posting more than writing and it's catching up with me!

**Mycroft's Manor**

It was half eight in the morning when Sherlock was woken by a knock on the bedroom door. He was groggy, still fuzzy from the alcohol consumed the night before, but even though his body ached and his head spun, he was filled with a lightness that was hard to define. He could still feel John's arms wrapped around him. He reached across the bed, but he found his hand and his heart came up empty. He remembered crawling into bed the night before with a certain blond-haired soldier. But now the other side of the bed was bleak and gelid, and he longed for the warmth of another body.

It was strange how fast one became used to another's body heat while sleeping. It wasn't something Sherlock was technically used to, though he wasn't immune to the natural human need for social practices such as shared beds and physical comfort. He had trained himself to be self-sustaining, needing only minor comforts through the years, which he got from sources he didn't wish to think about. He didn't want to think about the reason he was thinking about things he didn't want to think about; it was making him frustrated. Completely frustrated. He kicked his feet against the bed.

The second knock at the door was more persistent.

"Sherlock. Get up. Now!" Mycroft's voice penetrated the door like the smell of a decaying body through a sheet. Sherlock cringed when it hit him, and he kicked his feet a few more times for good measure. "They found your soldier. Er, your dead soldier." He could hear the chuckle from behind the door before he stood up and picked up his discarded gown from the floor. He sullenly wrapped it around his torso, pulling the belt tight and then ripped the door open. Mycroft stood there, his hands vying for innocence as they were clasped in front of him and a sly grin on his face.

"Where is the body?" Sherlock demanded. He didn't wait for an answer. He stormed past Mycroft and entered his own room and straight into the attached wardrobe.

"I'm not sure if you're ready for this." Mycroft calmly entered the room after Sherlock, but he waited just a few feet into the room. Sherlock shed his gown and picked out a shirt and trousers.

"Why?" He nearly shouted, popping out from the wardrobe before he swapped his ratty t-shirt for a sleek light blue button up. "I need to see the body for more clues. I need to find out when and where I'm supposed to meet Moran." Mycroft didn't answer. He waited patiently until Sherlock had put on his trousers and a clean jacket and came out of the wardrobe adjusting his sleeves.

"It's at the cemetery." Obviously, there was more to it. Sherlock stared at him, looking into his cold dead eyes, urging him to continue. Mycroft sighed. "More specifically, at your grave."

The silence was deafening while Sherlock contemplated the significance of this. It wouldn't be right to have John there. He would have to examine this body alone like the last one, or mostly alone. Mycroft would insist on being there again, of course.

"I'm going with you," John said from the doorway. He had his Captain Watson persona on. His hands were on his waist and he stuck out his chest. Sherlock was caught in the aura of that persona. He couldn't demand that he stay away, but he didn't want to expose him to that. He didn't want to keep dragging his "death" up again and again, it was idiotic to keep reliving it. But without being able to slip away unnoticed, he was going to have to acquiesce.

"John-" Sherlock started, but he was cut short by the look on John's face. "We'll all go."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**West Ham Cemetery**

Mycroft's black sedan pulled up to the cemetery John knew all too well. He had visited this same one, for the same gravestone, every day for months. Granted, it had taken a bit to get to that point after Sherlock's "death", but when he finally left the house, this is the only place he went that Greg had not followed along. By the time he finally stopped coming around, there was a well-worn path directly from the car park to the gravestone, the exact distance between his feet. When it rained, the small dirt path became mud, and his footsteps ground any remaining plant-life into oblivion. As the mud dried, it solidified into a compacted cement-like rut. It was something John had deliberately repressed, like all the other dark times since Sherlock had gone, choosing to hold on to the memories of when he met Mary and their resulting courtship.

John was the last to leave the vehicle, taking his time as Sherlock, Greg, and Mycroft shuffled out and stood near the entrance to the cemetery. He took a deep breath before swinging his feet outside of the door. Although it was mid-July, the weather was mild and John felt gooseflesh beneath his light jumper. He wrapped his arms tightly around himself for comfort. He didn't expect this would be easy, but if he knew who the victim was, he wanted to be here when they examined him. It was the right thing to do, despite his reluctance to be in this godforsaken place.

The group seemed to be waiting for John to proceed, watching him intently like he was a cracked porcelain doll being shaken by an exuberant child. He was determined not to break. He was a soldier. He steamed ahead of the group, following the path he had made himself, hoping the tears in his eyes would dry from the brush of air rushing past his face.

The sight of the body struck John harder than he thought it would. It was positioned as if crying over the gravestone. There was no wonder it took a few days before someone reported it. He was on his knees in front of the inscription, his hands and head were carefully placed on the top of the stone as if in a quiet conversation with a deceased love one. The same position that John had taken a few times during his trips there. The man's knees were inside the worn section in the grass right in front of the name on the stone.

There was no blood, just like every time John had been here, no matter how much he wished for it. He had that thought over and over: how he could bleed out slowly, letting the cold embrace take him. He had thought about it when Sherlock had jumped, and he had thought about it when Mary died. If it weren't for Greg and Harry, he would have died before he met Mary. And if it weren't for Rosie and Sherlock, he would have given up after Mary. Drinking himself to death felt like it would take too long. Shooting himself might be easier, but the ensuing gruesome scene left for Mrs. Hudson to find was overwhelming for him. Slitting his wrists was an enticing thing to do, his medical training taught him how the body would shut down and he would simply fall asleep. But his self-preservation instinct won out whenever he talked to Greg or Harry.

He knew that suicide was selfish, looking back on it. It wouldn't have helped anyone but himself. He just wanted the emptiness to go away. He wanted meaning for what he did, and when he couldn't find it, he couldn't see it, the only alternative was to make himself disappear. He was the smoke to Sherlock's fire, he just faded into the evening sky until there was nothing left without Sherlock. Looking at this man, surrounded by the people who John thought of as family, his chest ached. This could have been him; this could have been John.

The army combat fatigues that the man wore looked just like John's, the same awards and insignia on the sleeve except instead of the Captain insignia, this man carried the Major insignia. John knew this man. He was Major Lewis Taylor, the commanding officer of John's company, the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. He was a good man. He led his company with dignity and pride. John wiped his face dry with his sleeve.

He would have considered Major Taylor a friend, if not for the time they served together. During the war, bonds were formed within the units, but they were formed by the horrors of war, and not something they wanted to continue to think about after they were out. Major Taylor had been hospitalized and discharged with honor a week before John. He had seen him off at the hospital to ensure he was ok, promising to give a ring with no real intention of doing so. He regretted it now. There were so many regrets these days and John added it to a long list of lessons learned.

"Oh, Christ." The silence was broken by Greg. "Is it safe for us to even be here?" He looked left to right, apparently checking for a hidden sniper in the shadows.

"It's perfectly safe, Lestrade. Moran wants us to find these bodies for this…" Sherlock gestured with his hands, "…juvenile attempt at a sophisticated game. It's not part of his game to kill any of us right now, not while we're here at the body and haven't found the clue yet," Sherlock pointed out. John turned to give Sherlock a pointed look, so he wasted no time investigating the body of the Major. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves retrieved from deep within his overcoat and checked the fingernails and hands, smelling everything as he went. He touched the beret on the Major's head and checked his fingers, then checked the front pockets on his uniform.

"Sherlock, we have about fifteen minutes before my team gets here. You better hide any evidence you plan to keep," Greg warned as he rolled his eyes. John watched as Sherlock pocketed something that he pulled from Major Taylor. Then Sherlock pulled out his mobile and started typing as he walked back to the car. There was not so much as a second glance at the man so obviously supposed to represent John himself.

"Did you know him?" Greg asked. He placed his hand on John's shoulder and squeezed.

"His name is Lewis Taylor. Major Lewis Taylor. He commanded my company," John whispered.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"So?" Mycroft prompted from his seat in the sedan. They had all been patiently waiting in silence on the ride back to the Holmes estate, but Mycroft's annoyance had come to a head. "What did you find on the body?" He tapped his foot anxiously.

"Stop tapping in Morse code, you're disturbing my concentration," Sherlock snapped back. Greg gave Mycroft an inquisitive look but neither made a sound. Mycroft shook his head at him, but he wasn't able to hide the hint of a smile on the corner of his lips. John was glaring at him from next to Sherlock, obviously he knew Morse code as well. Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Sherlock…" he tried again. Sherlock held up his finger while he read on his mobile. He nodded his head a few times before he finally put it into his coat pocket.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Major Lewis Taylor, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, forty-nine years of age, alcoholic, divorced ten years ago but still wears his wedding ring, honorably discharged after injuries incurred from an IED. He's been at the cemetery for no more than three days, dressed and placed there, presumably by Moran." Mycroft looked to John who was avoiding eye contact and staring out the window.

"And what did you find?" Mycroft urged again. This was all getting quite tedious. Sherlock hummed and pulled a small paper card out of his pocket. He reached over and handed it to Mycroft. Mycroft looked the card back to front. It was a simple business card for a vehicle recovery service near Southampton. It didn't seem like a clue, except for the fact that it was completely out of place on the victim. He wasn't based anywhere near Southampton and he didn't own a vehicle by the look of him. The card held one other clue. It was the large print of the numbers "24 7" on the front of the card which Mycroft knew was supposed to represent the date in which Moran wanted to meet. It seemed clever, but it was obvious. It was childish. But continuing this game with Moran was the only way they were going to be able to stop him.

"The twenty fourth of July," Sherlock said. "So, next week I'm meant to meet Moran at midnight, location so far undetermined."

"I'm sure we'll find out when the next body shows up," Greg interjected with complete indifference. Mycroft watched with fascination from his cold leather seat. Gregory was being remarkably nonchalant about the whole thing. He wasn't buying it. Not for a minute. Gregory was passionate, it was one of the things that made him who he was. Mycroft hoped that this amount of inclusion wasn't a breaking point when they had just admitted there was something between them. If they had only waited. It was the wrong time to get close to anyone. With his high-level position and Sherlock's tendency to get into trouble with prominent figures, their lives were always at risk.

He looked around the back of the vehicle. Sherlock had grown considerably in the last few years. He was more tactful when dealing with sensitive cases. He finally made amends with Dr. Watson, which apparently went better than anyone expected. He was even being more open with his familial feelings, which is something they had long agreed not to do. It was too risky. Feelings, sentiment. It was always too risky.

John looked miserable. But despite his feelings, he was always willing to fight. He was strong, both morally and physically and he was not afraid to stand his ground, whether it was against a bullet or an injustice. He was the moral compass to Sherlock's indomitable force when he caught the scent of a particularly puzzling mystery. He was a good man, who defended Sherlock against anyone who tried to stop him. It was admirable.

And Gregory. Oh Gregory. The poor man had been through Hell since Sherlock had come into his life. The problems with his wife and the final divorce. He had been Sherlock's cheerleader for years, making sure that he was able to help at the Yard with cases and the like. He was there to lend a hand or his flat when Sherlock was hopped up on one thing or another. That was not something Mycroft liked to think about. It was an ignominious time for him. He preferred to sweep that part of his life under the proverbial rug. He had a lot to make up to Gregory, for everything that he had done for Sherlock and for him. And after this, he would. He would show him exactly what he meant to them.

But for now, they needed to deal with the issue at hand. The thought of seeing the body that was meant to represent Gregory was disconcerting to say the least. Mycroft would prefer to keep him away if possible. But considering the fact that it was going to be an officer of the law, it would be easier to have Gregory involved, if not leading the case from the yard.

When the sedan pulled up to the estate, Mycroft stayed back and grabbed Gregory by the arm.

"I need to make an appearance at Whitehall. I'll be back in a few hours." He wasn't expecting a response, so he was surprised when Gregory grabbed his knee and squeezed.

"I'll make something for supper, eh?" Greg leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. It brought upon a sudden burst of adrenaline that Mycroft tried to fight off, but he was as successful as a bullfighter in a pen of ravenous ferrets. Something about this man made him lose all control, despite his discipline that he practiced for so long. He reached his hand around Greg's neck and pulled him into something much more devious, something that should have been reserved for behind closed doors, away from prying eyes. He didn't care. It didn't matter now, after everyone here knew what was going on, it wasn't a secret and he would deal with the consequences later. Poise be damned.

Gregory's face was flushed with embarrassment as he pulled away at a natural breaking point. He had an endearing quality that Mycroft couldn't quite pinpoint. He was strong and sensitive, confident yet shy. His contradictory nature was frustrating and somehow comforting. It created a conflict within Mycroft that he didn't know how to rectify.

"Yes, ah, yes, indeed," Mycroft said. He cleared his throat and closed the door, leaving a blushing and smiling Greg on the manor stoop.

When Mycroft walked into Whitehall, he was met with the familiar sight of Anthea, working diligently at her desk near his office entrance. She glanced up in time to nod as he passed but kept typing. Mycroft nodded back and continued into his office. There were not many places that he felt entirely at ease, but his office at Whitehall was one of them. It was where he got most of his work done undisturbed, taking meetings in person and on the phone. He often stayed until sunrise, fielding calls from all over the world. It was easier than arranging airfare and accommodations just to have a single meeting in person. He loosened his tie a bit before picking up a stack of papers from the corner of the desk and sat down.

"Tea?" Anthea had popped her head through the doorway. Mycroft hummed and nodded, not taking his eyes off the papers in front of him. "And I need to update you on the Iranian situation as well as North Korea. Be right back," she said, then disappeared down the hall. Mycroft pulled out his laptop and started in on the pages of emails he had received since he last looked almost two days ago. Because of his expertise, he had a lot of different projects going on, but none were dearer to his heart than his surveillance projects. He would be able to try and track Moran using the protocols he himself installed. He would save that until he got home and was able to devote time to it.

"Mr. Farid Abdi sent the certified documents for your approval. It seems he found the issue in their security leak and he needs your approval for the overhaul. So, I need you to review these." She handed him an envelope after placing a steaming cup of Earl Grey in front of him. "And then I can send them back via courier." Mycroft took the envelope from her and placed it on his desk in a pile he was considering as his top priority. "Ready for the Korean update?" She didn't wait for an answer. Anthea walked out the door and came back in with another mug in her hand, its steaming contents smelling vaguely like popcorn. Mycroft looked at it and raised an eyebrow at her. "Genmaicha. A gift from a Japanese ambassador," she replied to his unasked question as she sat across from him on a small leather sofa. "Anyway, our contact in North Korea, Mun-Hee Yeo, has sent contact. He found evidence that there are more nuclear tests planned, particularly regarding the efficiency of distance and remote detonation. He intercepted some communications. Do you want me to pass it on or would you like to do it yourself?"

"I'll do it. I need you to focus on identifying the cargo that came in from Syria," he said. He was quiet for a moment and took a sip of the tea she had put on his desk. Anthea was holding her cup like it was a precious treasure. "Which Japanese ambassador?" He inquired. Anthea looked smug behind the rim of her cup.

"Ishimoto."

"Mmm." Mycroft took another sip. "The same Ishimoto that came by a few weeks ago?" Anthea hummed in response. "So, he's sending you gifts now? Do I need to free up some time on your calendar for 'personal time'?" He winked at her. Anthea's jaw dropped a little as she stood up from the sofa.

"I, ah, n-no, it's…no," she stuttered. "I'll get to work on the security footage from the docks," she said on her way out of the office. She closed the door tightly on her way out.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Mycroft's Manor**

Sherlock was pacing the living room like an expectant father, his hands pressed tightly together and holding up his chin. He was muttering to himself about watches and vehicle recovery, apparently trying to find a link between the two. John was getting dizzy watching him, so he walked out to find Mrs. Hudson having a fake tea party with Rosie in another room off the kitchen. They were wearing large sun hats and sitting around a low coffee table. Rosie was holding a cup up to the toy bunny sitting next to her. John smiled and sat down next to her.

"Can I share a cup with Ms. Bunny?" John asked. Rosie smiled and handed him the cup she was feeding to the toy animal. Rosie was growing up so fast, it made John's heart clench. He didn't want to miss another minute of her childhood. He just wanted a normal life for his daughter. He wanted to take her to the park, feed the ducks, teach her to ride a bike, show her the zoo and teach her about the animals, maybe even teach her about medicine. He could see Sherlock teaching her the power of deduction, using a little microscope next to Sherlock at the table. He smiled at the thought of a mini Sherlock.

"How are you holding up, John? Sure's a lot going on right now with this bad man and with you and Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson smiled so wide, her face scrunched up and her eyes nearly disappeared. "I'm so happy for you two! I just knew you would finally be honest with yourselves. You're going to be so happy together!" She flinched as a loud crash came from the front of the house where John had left Sherlock pacing. John rolled his eyes. If it wasn't one thing, it was another. He turned and smiled at Rosie.

"Daddy will be back in just a minute." John stood up and made his way to the front of the house where he had left Sherlock. An expensive looking vase was shattered on the floor and Sherlock was standing above it, staring it down as if waiting for the shards to suddenly come back together. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't look at him, but bore a hole instead into the pieces scattered across the floor like puzzle pieces. He held a sharp scowl on his face, but the pieces refused to move under the daggers he shot at them. He pulled his gaze away and started pacing again. John waited patiently for the ball to drop. He wanted to feel bad for him. He wanted to sympathize and coddle him, but there are times when you need to let a screaming child wear themselves out.

"Bored!" Sherlock yelled. "I'm tired of waiting, this is below my intellect! I'm trying to find a connection between the victims, between Moran and the victims, and what exactly he has planned. I need to know his next move. But…." Sherlock's shoulders slumped forward in defeat. If someone could look doubtful, angry, resigned, and desperate all at one time, it was Sherlock. He was an enigma personified, but it was one of the reasons why John loved him. He was a complicated person and there was so much behind his cold and calculating exterior that few people saw, and John was one of the lucky ones who saw it every day. It was an honor and a burden in one.

"I know it bothers you, but there is nothing you can do," John said. "Why don't you come and have some tea with us?" John gestured toward the other room. Sherlock looked skeptical before he sauntered after John. John sat back down where he was before and gestured Sherlock to sit across from him. He was hesitant, but he slumped down cross-legged on the floor at the low coffee table with an exaggerated "hrumph" as he hit the floor.

"Teeeeee?" Rosie waved the plastic fancy pot towards Sherlock, completely innocent of his frustrations.

"What a fantastic idea, little bee. I could just _murder_ some."


	14. White Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has problems at work, Greg tries to relax, Sherlock makes himself scarce, and John makes a confession of sorts.
> 
> ""Kindly hand the receiver to whomever seems to be in charge, please," Mycroft calmly answered back. Greg smiled and reached over his desk with the phone.
> 
> "It's for you," he said to the stern looking man standing in front. The man broke his collected demeanor before reaching for the phone and putting it to his ear."  
> .  
> .  
> .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished writing chapter 17, so here is chapter 14! I felt bad that chapter 13 was so short :)

**Whitehall**

Mycroft tapped his fingertips on the top of his polished desk, annoyed. He was reviewing the report on the shipping container issue Anthea was looking into. The security footage revealed crates being unloaded from the containers in the yard in the middle of the night, but nothing that even remotely pointed to ties with Syria. Except for the fact that they had tracked the carrier vessel since its departure from Baniyas. It was concerning to say the least. They didn't yet know what was in the crates, but the suspicion was weapons to distribute to possible terrorists cells within Great Britain, possibly the entire British Isles.

Anthea had already assigned operatives to track the crates but there weren't enough operatives to follow all of the vehicles. They were radiating outwards from the city like rats abandoning ship; some north towards Birmingham, Sheffield and Leeds, and others not too far from London in Harlow, Watford, and Epsom. The crates that didn't make it far were unfortunately the ones that didn't get the most surveillance, which was even more troubling. The whole episode made Mycroft question the loyalties and competency of the staff involved. They should have been on it. It should have been an easy task to accomplish. Mycroft pressed a small button on his intercom system.

"Anthea? Can you and Mr. Clarke come in here for a moment? I have a task for you," he said into the small intercom. He only had to wait a moment before the door to his office opened and Anthea and a short thin man entered. Clarke was a seasoned employee, specializing in communications and technology. Mycroft trusted him as much as one could with strictly business. Mycroft's small group of staff were hand chosen, the rest were grunt workers from MI5 and MI6, on loan when he needed them. The particular group of individuals that were tracking these crates happened to be outsourced with MI5, and although it would be nice to be able to trust every one of them, it wasn't possible in this line of work.

"I need you two to investigate all of the personnel that were on those crates. Anthea, in the meantime, switch out for individuals that we've worked with before, ones that are trustworthy. If they're not, make them be trustworthy. By any means necessary. Dismissed," Mycroft demanded.

"Yes, sir," the two said in unison. They left quickly without another word. Mycroft turned to watch the live footage of Sherrinford on the screen in front of him. He could see Eurus' cell, a sterile cement room with hospital-style fluorescent lighting. Her scraggly dark hair covered most of her face as she pulled the bow across her violin strings. Sherlock was standing outside the glass, playing his violin as well. He had thankfully taken Mycroft up on his offer of a helicopter ride when he wanted to see Eurus. At least Mycroft was able to keep better tabs on him this way. Yes, he had his surveillance and his team to track him, but it was easier when Sherlock just accepted being watched and looked after.

Mycroft had been doing this a long time, watching after Sherlock. It's not that their parents didn't care, in fact, Mummy Holmes was delighted to know that her sons were brilliant like her. His mother was smart, but with everything that she was involved in, she had little time for her boys when they were young. She taught university when she wasn't in her office working equations, which meant the traditional motherly duties were carried out by staff for the most part.

Their father was always an outsider, not able to keep up with witty banter or scientific talk. He preferred to listen, mesmerised by his family's intellect. He loved them dearly but since he couldn't keep up, he chose to focus on things that he could understand, like woodworking and his garden. Sherlock always had a curious mind and needed constant tending. Sometimes he'd sit with his mother, quietly copying her equations and completed the ones she wrote for him. Other times he would learn about the plants with his father in the garden. After the issues with Eurus, he became quiet, recluse. He spent the rest of his life searching for Victor Trevor until he had forgotten what he was searching for and he became obsessed with looking for nuances and clues to solve mysteries. He had perfected it. By the time he was a teenager, he had repressed the memories of Victor and was focusing on local events he read about in the paper.

Mycroft couldn't deny that Sherlock was good at it. Sherlock was good at anything he set his mind too. But that was the problem. If he set his mind to something, he was going to go through with it. He was stubborn to a fault and damn the consequences. But this. This may be something good. As long as he was able to supervise the interactions. Mycroft was the one who had witnessed her madness from the time she was little. He had carried it throughout his life, hoping that it didn't effect Sherlock in his formidable years. Maybe it was time to establish a real relationship with her, like Sherlock was trying to do. As Sherlock and Eurus started to harmonise into a beautiful duet, his desk phone rang.

"Yes?" Mycroft answered. It was the Met Commissioner.

"Mr. Holmes? I was told to contact you in the event that a case for DI Lestrade came up. I am in the understanding that Lestrade is working with you on some special investigation, though I have no idea why," the Commissioner said.

"As you are aware, Commissioner, Detective Inspector Lestrade is on a special forces committee delegated by the Ministry of Defence, and the Defence Services Secretary himself. Unfortunately, your rank does not allow you access to the details of what Lestrade is currently working on, but I assure you that he will be back in your employ as soon as he is able. Now, please do inform me of the details of the new case," Mycroft said calmly. There was a grumble on the other side of the line before the Commissioner spoke again.

"There was a call-in from a concerned citizen about a smell coming from her neighbor's. The officer who took the call reported the body of the homeowner who'd been deceased for a few days. He used to work here, actually; he was a retired DCI. They said his heart was missing. I can send over the case details that we have so far, but it isn't much."

"Yes, that will be all, Commissioner," Mycroft told him. "Thank you," he said before hanging up. He didn't want to tell Gregory about it, but there wasn't another option. They would need to get all the details of the case and it would be easier if Gregory was heading it.

Mycroft pulled his mobile out of his pocket and rang Gregory. He had a hard time keeping the smile off his face when he heard the voice on the other end.

"Hi," Gregory said. "You lonely there in that big office all by yourself?" Mycroft chuckled. I'm going mad.

"Not really the time, Gregory." But he smiled anyway. "I got a call from the Commissioner letting me know that they found a retired DCI with his heart missing. They're looking to have you lead the case, which may come in handy for this one. The scene will be locked down considering his affiliations and I don't want to have to get involved any more than I already am. Are you up for it?"

"Who?" Greg whispered. If Mycroft had not been listening intently, he wouldn't have heard it. He swallowed hard, but checked his notes. "What was his name?"

"Jonathan McCreedy." Mycroft was almost certain that Gregory didn't know him personally, or at least had little interaction with him, but he also knew that Gregory was a man of honour and a victim was more than a body. It was a person, with a life, with a history.

"I want to say 'no', but I also know my answer should be 'yes'," Greg said with a sigh. Mycroft knew the feeling.

"I'll be there the entire time," Mycroft said.

"I thought you had some work out of the country. What happened? Weren't you supposed to leave today? Or yesterday?"

"Gregory. I wouldn't dream of leaving at a time like this. I sent someone in my stead," Mycroft replied. Honestly, he was slightly relieved to get out of it. He didn't want to get involved in the trade agreements with China anymore than he wanted to deal with Moran. Sherlock's safety was his number one priority, though Gregory was becoming a close second.

"Okay, I'll do it," Greg said. Mycroft had already received the emailed file from the Commissioner and was compiling all of the information to get Gregory up to speed.

"David will take you to the scene and I will meet you there. I won't come in with you, but I have some information that will be helpful. He'll be ready in five minutes. Let Sherlock and Dr. Watson know," Mycroft said.

"Stay safe, I'll see you in a bit, I guess."

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Mycroft's Manor**

Greg was trying to relax in the garden, a crime novel cradled between his hands as he lounged on a patio recliner, his legs crossed at the ankles. He had been hoping to finally get to read the last in a series from Dennis Lehane, Moonlight Mile. It wasn't a new release, but he seemed to never have the time to read anymore. Sometimes he wondered if there was something wrong with him. As if he couldn't get enough of the murder and crime in his everyday life, he had to read about fictional mysteries on top of it. It was his guilty pleasure. Some people liked reality telly, he liked fictional crime drama. In the end, the good guy always wins. The killer, the psychopath; they always lost. They always got their just desserts. It was as satisfying as closing a real case.

But relaxing wasn't coming easy to him. His feet were bouncing at the end of the lounger and his fingers picked at the already curling corners of the paperback. He'd peeled back the cover to start this one so many times, had to reread the first couple chapters a few times even. Now, he had a bit of time to just focus on the words and get lost in the story. But he couldn't. He had read and reread the same sentence for the last five minutes. Between the noise inside the house and the noise inside his head, it was all too loud. He closed the book, not bothering to save his place, and rubbed his face with his hands. He was going to need to start from the beginning again anyway.

Trying to relax with Sherlock around was like pulling teeth, not to mention the inevitable discovery of the last body. It was supposed to represent him, the last friend of Sherlock's that Moriarty had threatened. He didn't know how he felt about that. He had been threatened before, but mostly by low-life criminals as they were being cuffed and waiting in the bin. He hadn't been threatened because his association with Sherlock before, but it didn't seem unreasonable, to be honest. Actually, he was surprised it never happened before.

His mobile rang and when he pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the ID, he smiled. There wasn't much that made him happy in the past few years, but this was definitely one of them.

"Hi," Gregory answered. "You lonely there in that big office all by yourself?" Mycroft chuckled on the other end.

*********

The discovery of the body wasn't a surprise. It shouldn't have changed Greg's thoughts about the matter. But now it was real, tangible, and terrifying. His heart beat loudly and erratically in his chest like the sounds of a London nightclub. If he had been alone in this, he probably would have gone in, proverbial guns blazing. But now that he had people whom he cared about, he could afford to be weary. He was going to do this right, which meant slowly and methodically.

Greg got up from the lounger and went towards the giggling he could hear from inside the house. John, Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson and Rosie were sitting around the coffee table drinking imaginary tea. Their large sun hats shaded the afternoon sun coming in through the glass doors and each person held a little plastic teacup. Sherlock was talking about the different varieties of tea while John made faces and said silly things in accents to match. Greg watched quietly from the French doors for a minute before interrupting. Sherlock looked to be irritated with John's trivialising of his information and by the look of impatience on Sherlock's face, Greg was just in the nick of time.

"Sorry, but we got the last crime scene. Car should be ready now, let's go," Greg said, putting down his book. Sherlock wasted no time in throwing his hat across the room and standing up; John was close behind.

"Rosie?" John called out to Mrs. Hudson.

"She's fine, John. We're going to take a stroll around the garden and then a little nap for us both. You go do what needs to be done." With a resolute nod, he followed Greg and Sherlock to the car.

"Sherlock, be on your best behavior. I shouldn't have to remind you that it's a crime scene for a fellow officer. Be respectful," Greg said as they climbed into the back.

Sherlock eyed the sedan with a look of distaste. "Mycroft must have an unlimited petrol fund these days, or stock in BMW."

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**McCreedy's flat, Stratford**

John watched quietly as Sherlock flitted about the modest flat, bouncing from the thread-bare carpet under the particleboard coffee table to the dirty window behind the blood stained nineteen sixties style plaid sofa. He grunted at each pause, plucked at fibers and scraped what looked to be dirt into an envelope before tucking it into his overcoat.

"WHY is the body gone?" Sherlock threw his arms wide, snapping his overcoat to attention on his back with a sickening crack. "You are all completely incompetent, utterly useless examples of the Metropolitan Police Service. My humble thanks for doing absolutely nothing correct!" He stormed past the milling bodies in white jump suits and masks and slammed into Lestrade on his way out the front door. Lestrade's hands were pushed from his pockets as he tried to gain balance in the aftermath.

"Sherlock!" Greg called after him.

"He's probably already on his way to Bart's. Best to leave him to it," John said. "Lunch?" John smiled and looked at his watch.

"John, are you coming?" Sherlock called from the stairwell. Greg gave John a pointed look.

"Molly," John tried to clarify, but Greg just raised his eyebrows. John scoffed. There was no point in denying that he was Sherlock's shadow.

John glanced around the room one last time before turning and sauntering down the stairs like a cat with cream. His smile stretched from the Bristol Channel to the River Thames. Sometimes it felt good to be skilled in an area that Sherlock was completely inept in.

Sherlock was pacing in front of the parked taxi when John got to the pavement. He looked up as John approached and feigned a smile.

"I'll need my blogger, of course," he said, opening the door to the taxi.

"I believe it's pronounced, buffer." John stood with his hands behind his back and raised his chin to Sherlock's face.

"Ha ha," Sherlock squeezed out between the deadpanned lines of his face.

"You know, you could just talked to her like an adult," John tried as the cab took off.

"No time to waste."

John watched the buildings fly by as a light rain started on the window. By the time they arrived at Bart's, it had increased to a full shower, threatening on deluge.

"Let me do the talking then, yeah?"

The labyrinth-style hallways leading to the morgue were eerily quiet, save for the sound of their shoes tapping against the marble floor and the swish of Sherlock's coat. Click swish click swish, click swish click swish. John used the rhythmic sound to gentle his wild heart into submission. He didn't yet know the best way to explain the new dynamic of his relationship with Sherlock, but it would definitely help to heal the rift between Molly and Sherlock.

John entered the morgue first, pushing through the door and looking around the room like a thief. The room was devoid of life, as far as he could tell. The shiny metal of the exam tables and the cooler doors shined bright in the fluorescent lighting from above, making the space brighter than what should be appropriate for a place of the dead.

The morgue was never a place that John felt comfortable. It didn't matter if it was here in a sterile facility or the storage area in the desert that held the casualties of war. Lifeless bodies stacked on top of each other, like stacks of broken equipment waiting for the rubbish bin. But he was a doctor, a soldier. And he could separate that part of himself when needed. He did it a lot throughout his adult life, hell, even his childhood. It's what men did, right? They pushed their feelings aside and pretended that they didn't have them. That they were petty and insignificant in the scheme of things. They were taught that there was a correct way to be, and anything else was an abomination.

But Harry wasn't an abomination. John wasn't an abomination. And these shells of human beings were far from abominations. They were the residual parts of a life. The leftovers of happy smiles, discovered love, accomplishments, tears, heartbreak, and failure. They had families and friends that outlived them and thought about them everyday.

No, he wasn't uncomfortable like he was before. He was uncomfortable in a different manner now. He didn't want to leave behind an empty vessel of a fraud. He didn't want to be remembered as someone he wasn't, as someone he was trained to be. Because he was better than how he was trained. His father taught him how to hide and his military training taught him how to seek. One giant game of hide and seek.

"John! I didn't expect to see you here!" The tiny voice came from the side office where Molly had been inputting reports. The body of an elderly man was cracked open on the table directly in front of the office, each organ in a separate container, each labeled with a small white tag listing the date, the specimen name, and the name of the deceased.

"Hello, Molly," John greeted her as he stepped into the room. Sherlock was close behind and as he crossed the threshold, Molly's sharp intake of breath revealed that she'd seen him. "Ah, yes. We're here to look at Jonathan McCreedy. He came in this morning." Molly's jaw set tight and her lips pursed so hard, they disappeared into her mouth. She was looking everywhere but at Sherlock.

"Jonathan McCreedy," she finally squeaked. "Yeah, he came in around ten AM. I haven't gotten to him yet. I was just finishing up with Ed here." Molly pointed to the splayed out body on the table next to her. "McCreedy is in the last row, second down." Sherlock went straightaway to the cooler and pulled out the sliding tray. "His effects are in the bin there." She pointed to a stack of clear boxes filled with ripped and bloodied clothing, then she turned and went back into the office without glancing at John again.

"Ah, Molly, can I, uh..." John tentatively approached the office. Behind him, Sherlock was busied examining the body with his small magnifying glass. "I just wanted to, uh, apologize again." Molly looked up briefly from her computer screen and took a sip from the tea resting on the desk near her elbow. "There have been some…well, you see the thing is…Sherlock…" John couldn't say it out loud.

"I know. Sherlock doesn't love me. It's okay, Dr. Watson. I'm a big girl, I'll get over it."

"Me," John coughed out.

"Sorry?"

"Me. Sherlock, uh, loves me."

"Oh. Oh. Ohh." Molly looked uncomfortable for a bit, seeming to search for her feelings on the matter. "And do you-?"

"Yes," John cut her off. "I suppose I always have."

"Well, then." Molly stood up. "I guess that settles that, then." She gave a forced smile that slowly softened until her eyes were sad. She reached out and gently grabbed John's sleeve. "I'm happy for you, John. Really." She narrowed her eyes at him and the grip on his sleeve tightened. "Don't you dare hurt him. Do you hear me, John Watson? Don't you dare."

"No, never," John whispered. He turned to look at his detective, elbow-deep in the box now, searching the clothes cut from McCreedy. He found whatever it was he was looking for and placed it in his pocket. Then, he placed the cover back on the box, carefully slid the body back into the horizontal cooler, and quickly left the room.

"I better-" John pointed to the door swinging closed. "I'm guessing the lab."

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**New Scotland Yard**

Greg's office was just as he left it. There weren't any stacks of new cases, no new reports, not even a note stuck to his keyboard. It was if he hadn't been gone for a few days at all. It would be concerning except he knew exactly what, or better, who, had happened. He had actually hoped that there would be work to do, cases to assign, evidence to sort, or even a bloody complaint from staff to deal with. But there was nothing. What he wanted most was to get out of the small, shabby flat with the blood stain on the sofa. But every time he closed his eyes, he was there. He could still smell the mildew and rotten food clinging to the dishes in the sink. The further fermenting of sour beer in the bottom of bottles on the counter. The way the sunlight hit the empty liquor bottles covering every surface in the place to emerge on the other side, like spotlights for an empty stage.

The closed door to his office wasn't helping anything, so he got up and opened it, thankful for the sound of people at work. He focused on the clicking of keyboards, the soft murmur of conversation with the occasional loud start or laugh, the creak of a door or a chair, paper rustling. It was soothing, the sound of movement, the sound of life. Had McCreedy forgotten the sounds of life? Closed himself off within his tiny flat, absorbed in drink and the telly? It hadn't looked like he had any visitors, no pictures on his walls of family or friends.

Greg didn't know him personally. He had only met him a few times in passing when he was a young PC. But McCreedy had a reputation for being bull-headed and steadfast. He was dedicated to his work and a model Chief. So what had that gotten him? A ring-side seat to loneliness. He had awards and badges, recognition of a job well done. But no one to share it with. Had he pushed them away or had he never let anyone close enough from the beginning? He needed to know. Greg turned on his computer and while he waited for it to load, he got up to get himself a coffee.

"Boss, I thought you were on some secret mission," Donovan said, catching him off guard in the kitchen.

"And what, you decided to drink all of my good coffee in the meantime? You're fired." Greg slammed the cupboard door harder than he had meant to and winced. Donovan pushed him aside and opened a cupboard below, producing a brown paper bag.

"Don't say I haven't done nothin' for ya," she said, tossing the bag into his hands. The disturbance to the bag caused a gust of coffee scent upwards, making him roll his eyes into the back of his head.

"You're rehired," he hummed into the bag as he opened it and filled the coffee pot.

"Working on something I can help with?" she asked. She took her time rinsing out a couple of mugs and placing them on the worktop next to him. Greg contemplated it. She was trustworthy, but her aversion to Sherlock had always been a problem. She wasn't quite ready to fly the Holmes flag into battle.

"No, not this time, but I admire your enthusiasm." Donovan shrugged and took the mug of coffee he offered her, leaving him to it.

By the time he got back to his office, his computer had booted up and he was able to access the file on McCreedy's scene. No sign of forced entry. No fingerprints besides the victim. Initial notes from the Forensic Medical Examiner state that besides the heart being cut out, the body showed signs of perimortem bruising. So the poor guy was beaten before he died? He was divorced over fifteen years ago. His wife probably got sick of him choosing work over her. Maybe she even cheated on him too. No kids. Not even a pet to care if he ever came home or not. That could be him. That could be Greg in fifteen years, drinking himself into a stupor and watching crap telly every day.

No, no no no. That will not be me. Greg shook his head and closed the file. Maybe he should get a dog. Was Mycroft a cat or a dog person? Outside of his office, he could hear his name. Donovan was leading a small group of men in suits towards his door and he could see them crossing the open office through the windows.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" the first man asked. He didn't wait for a reply. "I'm led to believe you are working the McCreedy case? We need to gather all physical evidence as well as confirm the transfer of all digital files into our custody."

"And who am I handing over all of this to?" Greg leaned back in his chair.

"That's not need-to-know information," said the second man in the doorway. The third man hung back outside the door, as if on look out duty.

"Oh, of course, yeah. Give me just a second here," Greg said as he picked up his desk phone and started dialing. The other side answered and Greg turned away from the men at his door. "Hey, did you send some guys here to take the McCreedy case?"

"Absolutely not, Gregory. Why would I push you to head the case and then take it away from you? Kindly hand the receiver to whomever seems to be in charge, please," Mycroft calmly answered back. Greg smiled and reached over his desk with the phone.

"It's for you," he said to the stern looking man standing in front. The man broke his collected demeanor before reaching for the phone and putting it to his ear.

"Yes?" He paused. "That information is level five clearance," he said. "I'm sorry, sir." He paused again, his face scrunching in on itself like a chastised child. "Of course, sir. My apologies, sir. I will let him know." He handed back the phone and looked at Greg. "My apologies, sir." Greg nodded as the team turned around and walked back the way they came.

"I don't know what you said to them, but you should have seen his face. It was priceless," Greg said, laughing.

"It was my pleasure, Gregory. I'm more than happy to be your white knight. Do let me know if you need further assistance," Mycroft all but purred into the speaker. "And by the way, I did see his face. You see that security camera in the corner outside your office to the left? I got a front row seat, as it were."

"Have you been spying on me this whole time?" Greg asked, staring at the little camera on the ceiling outside his office. "That's sort of creepy. In a sexy sort of way." He winked at the camera. "A'ight, show's over. I have to get back to work. And I don't even want to hear about the amount of coffee I drink in a given work day."

"Yes, inspector. I hope you have a coffee-filled productive day."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**St. Bart's Laboratory**

Sherlock hovered over the microscope, the remnants of ash on the glass slide in front of him and the air around him in a state of dead-still. This was not going to be easy. It was obviously a Turkish blend, fairly standard for any cigarette smoking pedestrian who frequents a convenience store. The only information worth noting in it was that Moran was a smoker. He moved on to the dried mud that he had found, a particularly red sample. This had to have more information than the cigarette ash.

It did in fact, because Sherlock knew by the composition of the mud that it was unlike any around McCreedy's flat. It was more like the older previously untouched soil near a particular area of town. He pulled out his mobile and began searching for construction reports near hotels in the area. There were only a few that he would need to investigate before finding where Moran was staying. He could catch him before the planned meeting, off-guard and hopefully unarmed.

"So, you find anything of use?" The voice pulled Sherlock from his thoughts. He had assumed he was alone in the lab, though remembering back, he hadn't bothered to look around the room after he had seated himself at the worktop. John was lounging against the cupboards across the room, looking decidedly like he'd rather be anywhere else. Sherlock hadn't decided yet if he was going to include John in his plan to head Moran off at the start.

"I found a receipt for a B.I. Garrison Clockmakers. He wants to meet at Elizabeth Tower, midnight, in two days' time." He'd investigate the hotel on his own. No need to get him involved in too much. John needed to be around for Rosie. "There's nothing else of significance here. I'll guess I'll just have to wait until the day," Sherlock said. He hoped he sounded sincere enough so John would let him be. He stood and wiped his hands down his trousers then grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.

"And where are you off, then?" John asked.

"Uh, bedclothes. Curtains. A new kettle. Domestic things, you know," Sherlock mumbled as he headed out the door. "Don't wait up!" he called out as the door closed behind him. He could vaguely here the protest as he stalked down the hallway but he turned the corner before John had a chance to stop him.

Sherlock grabbed the first cab he spotted off the pavement and they headed North towards St. John at Hackney. There were three hotels in the area and Moran would have had to cross the churchyard gardens on his way to Stratford, thus walking in the red soil turned up from the construction. It was more likely that he was staying at the pub and guesthouse on the north side, so that was where Sherlock was headed.

It didn't take more than 20 minutes to find the room in which Moran had been staying. The same ash that Sherlock had found at McCreedy's was also on the first floor balcony on the right side of the chair where he must have sat and planned his heinous crimes. No doubt he had done most of his research before ever stepping foot back in the city. He had probably planned some sort of revenge for what he saw as past discretions since they occurred. Sherlock had climbed the trellis to get to the balcony and on his way up, he hadn't missed the traces of gun oil on the chair's arm rest. A large caliber rifle, and a high powered scope, obviously, by the marks left on the small table next to the chair.

The room was empty, apart from the faint traces of blood by the sink, presumably left in his haste to clean his knife. Sherlock searched every inch of the room but found nothing. The scrapes on the floor under the bed confirmed the place he kept his rifle and gear, but the case was gone and the room cold. His mobile vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out to look. A text from John. Trivial. He wanted to know his whereabouts, of course. He put it back in without another thought and started opening drawers. Takeaway menus, the television remote, bible. Nothing out of the ordinary.

His mobile buzzed again. Then twice more. Then it rang, so he silenced it and put it away. John was more at risk here, and it was priority one to keep him safe. Sherlock would just have to wait here until Moran returns. He settled into a chair inside the room, casually crossing his legs.

********************

Footfalls came and went throughout the hall outside the room but they never slowed near the door. Each time he heard them, Sherlock readied himself to catch Moran, but was each time let down. Sometime after he heard the housekeeping trolley enter the room down the hall, the sound of heavier steps made their way to the door. The keypad that had long ago replaced the old lock and key beeped as it was activated, and Sherlock sat up. He raised his chin as the door slowly opened, the edge prompted by the tip of an umbrella.

"I would have thought you had quite learned your lesson by now," Mycroft said before he entered the room. "Sherlock, he's a soldier, not an idiot."

"John was concerned, I presume?" Sherlock asked offhandedly, gracefully rising from the chair.

"Yes, though that's not to whom I was referring." Mycroft used his umbrella tip to point towards the corner of the room. Sherlock followed the line of sight and reached for a small camera between a couple of decorative books. He hummed before ripping it out.

"I admit defeat in this instance-" He paused and shot Mycroft a look, "-don't say it." Mycroft raised his eyebrows but kept his mouth shut. He gestured towards the door until Sherlock stormed out.


	15. Norbury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock feels guilty, Mycroft makes plans, and All the boys get to work.
> 
> ""Bullocks," John scoffed. "A big load of bloody bullocks. You will, and we all know it. Just know that I will be right behind you. If you try to do anything without me, I'll have Mycroft hunt you down." In the corner of his vision, John saw Greg quickly cover his growing smile."  
> .  
> .  
> .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I understand the bell at Elizabeth Tower is not chiming while the restoration is underway, but I took a few liberties. Sue me. :)

**Mycroft's Manor**

"What the _hell_ were you thinking?" John tried to keep his voice down but the hollow rooms of the house grabbed it and bounced it off the walls until it echoed back at him. He immediately regretted it, but it didn't change how he felt. "Didn't we just have this exact conversation not three days ago? And you were just going to, what? Single-handedly stop an armed psychopath hell-bent on revenge?"

"He wasn't even there, John. It's nothing to worry about. You didn't miss anything," Sherlock replied, much too calmly for John's liking.

"Sherlock- I'm not upset because I _wasn't there_." He curled his lip and narrowed his eyes at him, trying to telepathically call him an idiot. "And if he had? If he'd been there, ready to strike? Then what?"

"Then I could have ended this already."

"Oh, right, Mr. _I'm-The-Only-One-That-Can-Stop-This!_ You have no thoughts to anyone else, do you?" John was close to throwing punches now.

"You shouldn't be ashamed of your intellectual inadequacies, John. Especially not compared to me." Sherlock was eyeing John up and down now and backing away slowly. It was wise on his part. John was stepping towards him, pushing up his shirt sleeves and starting to snarl.

Their commotion had stirred Mrs. Hudson from further within the house and she was watching from a doorway with a look of horror on her face. As Sherlock started to flinch and John drew back as if he had finally had enough, Mrs. Hudson let out a shriek.

"Norbury!" she cried. "Damnit, Sherlock, Norbury!" John pulled back with a start, knowing the name but not knowing what was meant by it. The room was still except the heaving of Mrs. Hudson. Somewhere in another room, a grandfather clock ticked loudly. John wasn't sure who to focus on, so he decided to go back and forth between Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock finally said. It was a quiet output of breath, not so much words.

"Wha?" John panted, unable to catch his breath. It was like holding Mary in his arms all over again, watching her take her last breath.

"I'm sorry, John. I…I got ahead of myself," Sherlock said. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he added.

"What the hell does that mean? Why? Why did she say that to you? Why would she bring up the woman who killed my wife?" John was spitting now. Sherlock running off on his own was one thing, but dragging his wife into it? That was a whole different type of soul-crushing that John didn't expect.

"I kindly asked Mrs. Hudson to say that name if I ever got too full of myself. She's only done what I have asked of her, don't blame her, John." Sherlock took the opportunity to slide his way to the other side of the room, further away from John and out of arms' length.

"I'm sorry, John. I didn't know," Mrs. Hudson said, miserably. "I think we could all use a nice cup of tea, hmm?" She disappeared around the corner to the kitchen.

The previously quiet Greg and Mycroft sauntered into the library to sit so John followed them, his blood boiling and his hands shaking. Sherlock waited until the three had taken their seats before he crept in, keeping close to the wall. John was glad for it. It was like a cycle with this man; Kindness, apologies, then secrets, avoidance, lies, then kindness and apologies, again and again.

"This has got to stop, Sherlock. Do you not trust any us? Do you not trust me?" John tried to ask it nicely, quietly, but it still came out sharp in his ears. "Do you not understand that we all have a stake in this?" He gestured around the room.

"I understand perfectly, John, which is why I cannot, in good faith, let you risk yourself. You are safer here, with Mycroft's protection, than you are sitting in a killer's hotel room. It's just common sense."

" _I_ am a part of this. _We_ are a part of this. All of us here. You keep thinking that you're doing this for us, for me, but what about what I want? What I need?" Sherlock didn't seem to have an answer to that and minutes passed as the people in the room were silent. John couldn't look at Sherlock anymore. He looked around the room instead. Greg was staring intently at his toes but Mycroft was watching him with interest.

"And what is it you need, Dr. Watson?" Mycroft asked into the expectant air. John furrowed his brows. "Well, if no one else was going to inquire." Mycroft looked to Sherlock and shrugged his shoulders.

"What I want is what I'm due. I want to help end this son of a bitch so I'm safe, so my family is safe. My friends are safe. I _will not_ endure another two years in misery. I will not." He clenched his fists on the arms of the chair and pounded. "I love you, God damnit! I will not lose you, and I will not be shut out!"

"I see we have found Dr. Watson's breaking point," Mycroft said casually. He waited for a response but Sherlock was still hanging his head. "For God's sake, Sherlock, you're personal quandaries are getting in the way of this. You need a clear head, so get it out now, before you set in motion things that cannot be undone."

"I won't do it again," Sherlock said quietly.

"Bullocks," John scoffed. "A big load of bloody bullocks. You will, and we all know it. Just know that I will be right behind you. If you try to do anything without me, I'll have Mycroft hunt you down." In the corner of his vision, John saw Greg quickly cover his growing smile.

The room took a minute to let that sink in. It was dead quiet when Mrs. Hudson came in with the tea, passing out cups to each person, except Mycroft. She left his on the tray on the coffee table but he didn't seem perturbed when he had to lean forward and grab it himself.

"So," Mycroft continued as if they didn't just have something close to a punch-up, "You are supposed to meet Moran in two days time, at the Elizabeth Tower at midnight. Do you know his plan? What he wants of you?"

"I would imagine he wants me dead. And I would imagine he wants me to know who he is and to see his face before he does it."

"The tower doesn't allow many options, but then again, he's a sniper, so how sure are you that he won't just wait somewhere to pick you off?" Greg was finally asking the right questions.

"No doubt he's already scoped the place. We'll need to do our own investigating if we're to have the upper hand," Sherlock replied.

"I agree. Why don't you three go analyse it tomorrow?" Mycroft offered. "For now, let's enjoy our tea before we conclude this fun-filled day, hmm?"

* * *

After Sherlock, Dr. Watson, and Gregory had left to scope out the Tower, Mycroft was finally alone in the house. Well, not completely alone, but Mrs. Hudson and the baby were so far across the estate that it seemed like he was alone. Closed off in his home office, the silence was a sweet escape. He didn't want to think about what could happen on the night Sherlock was meant to meet Moran. With everything that had happened with Moriarty, this was the last link and Sherlock surely wasn't handling it well. If Mycroft were to ensure Sherlock's safety, ne needed to have measures in place, a back up plan in case something went wrong.

It seemed easy enough. The underground station across the street was open until half past midnight, so having a team to blend in with the pedestrians would be easy. He would also get a few snipers in place on both the roof of the station as well as the House of Parliament. With his access level and the emptiness at that hour, that should be easy as well.

Mycroft checked the system of surveillance cameras in the area. There wasn't a complete view of the pavement in front of the tower, but it would have to do. He was able to see the front of Westminster Station which allow him to keep at least one agent.

He picked up his mobile to call Anthea.

"Sir?"

"I need to know what you have so far on the outsourced MI5 workers," he calmly stated.

"Clarke and I have thoroughly looked into over half of them so far, but nothing stands out as concerning. Some have been with MI5 for only a year to three years, others are more seasoned with almost ten years in service."

"Good. I trust your judgement," Mycroft started. "And speaking of which, I need you to select a minimum five agents that can help out tomorrow night. I need them to be geared up and ready to go by eight PM. I'll need two snipers on the roof of Westminster Station, two agents on the roof of the House, all focused on the top floor of the tower. I'll also need a minimum one agent on the ground at the station to watch anyone coming out of the Tower. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir. May I ask what this is about?"

"My brother is attempting to go into battle, and I am providing the cavalry."

* * *

**Elizabeth Tower**

Sherlock assumed that Moran would be at the Tower before he got there, which wasn't going to be a problem. After investigating the building the day before, Sherlock, John, and Greg had what they believed to be a solid plan. Greg would cover the street in the event that Moran escaped downwards and would get his team on site before they led Moran downstairs. John would stay at the top of the stairs, as the first defence. Sherlock would meet Moran about halfway up the tower in the prison room, so he assumed. Mycroft would be monitoring the situation from his office at Whitehall and would only by a phone call away. He no doubt had his own plan in place, probably something extravagant at the expense of the British Government.

It was quarter to midnight when they arrived at the Tower. The base was highlighted in yellow lights and covered in scaffolding, making it look like as a rocket about to take off. Aided by the construction equipment, it was easy to find a door that was unseen by passersby. Sherlock pulled out a lock pick and opened the service entrance for them.

"You bring your gun, John?" Greg asked before Sherlock and John slipped into the doorway.

John gave him a look that said it all. _Why wouldn't I bring it?_

"Be safe," he said, grabbing John by the arm. John nodded and followed Sherlock up the service steps towards the top of the Tower.

The Tower was quite different at night after it's been closed for the day. The bustling people were replaced with shadows and the echoing sounds from Bridge Street into the tall staircase. At every floor, Sherlock stopped to listen for any movement up above, but the space remained silent but for the gentle hum of motors and tyres on pavement. It was almost too quiet.

The clock was about to strike in just a few minutes, so Sherlock braced against the wall just before the door to the prison room. At midnight, as the bell rang, he would enter the room. The timing was meant to mask the sound of the door opening, catching Moran off guard, thus rendering him immobile and allowing the police to arrest him where they wait downstairs. Lestrade should have called them by now.

Sherlock took a few deep, steadying breaths. Next to him, John was fidgeting something fierce. He put his hand to John's chest to calm him, but it didn't have the effect he was anticipating. His hand trembled with the shaking from John's chest and it pulsed with his increasing heartbeat. Sherlock didn't like putting this on John; he didn't like him here, so close to everything. He should have tried to slip off and lie about the meeting place. It would have been easier than worrying about everyone else.

One more minute before the bells were to toll. John's jaw was clenched and his lip quivered.

"I'm sorry, John."

"For what this time?" John looked up and smiled.

"For everything. For the two years, for Mary, for constantly putting you in danger," Sherlock replied. The smile faded from John's face.

"Just be careful, yeah? Stop being a prat, and end this." John reached up and pulled Sherlock into him, smashing their lips together.

The clock struck midnight and the bells began to toll. Sherlock pulled away and pushed through the door.

* * *

As the bell started to ring, Sherlock pushed the door open and disappeared behind it, leaving John vibrating with the sound in the stairwell. If something were to go wrong, it would be too loud to hear at this point. He wouldn't be able to jump in and help. John took a deep breath, widened his stance and counted out the rings of the bell. _One. Two. Three_. He could be behind that door, embraced in a struggle for his life. _Four. Five. Six._ With the sound masking everything, he could have been shot. _Seven. Eight. Nine_. He could be lying on the ground, bleeding out. _Ten. Eleven. Twelve._ As the reverberations subsided, John held his breath to listen for sounds behind the door.

"John." The sound was muffled, but he was pretty sure Sherlock was calling for him. "John!" Yes, it was definitely Sherlock calling out to him. John readied his handgun and pushed through the door, expecting there to be either an incapacitated Moran, or a bleeding Sherlock.

Much to his surprise, he saw neither.

"Sherlock?" he questioned into the empty space. There was no blood on the floor, nor anyone cuffed and waiting for removal. In fact, it looked remarkedly like nothing of significance had happened there at all. Walking around a corner, John spotted Sherlock leaning against a window, the city lights reflecting off his pale face. "Sherlock, what's going on? Where is Moran?"

"He's not here," Sherlock muttered. "He was never here." He stood up straight and looked towards John. It was odd to John that the lack of climax disappointed him. He should have been relieved that Moran wasn't there and they were safe another day.

Seconds after he left the window, the sound of glass shattering to the floor filled the space. Sherlock lurched forward and tackled John to the ground, covering his body with his wool coat like a blanket. The shock of the fall knocked the wind from his lungs. The pain in his hip, elbow and wrist hit him next when they rose up to meet the wooden floor boards.

But the pain in his joints was nothing compared to the bright white shock in his thigh. John pushed Sherlock off his back and rolled onto his side. The blood pooling on the floor was hot under his fingertips as he brushed them threw it and reached for his thigh. The radiating sting shot down to his knee and upwards into his groin and his stomach clenched and heaved with the sudden shock. He grabbed at the wound as his head spun.

"John! Don't move, John, stay down and don't move." Sherlock's voice echoed into the distance as John's vision went dark. He could vaguely feel Sherlock crawl away from him, talking into his phone. "What the hell is happening, Mycroft?"

* * *

**Whitehall**

"Why didn't you have some backup plan in place?" Sherlock shouted over the line. His irritation with Mycroft was easy to reflect back at him.

"Do you really think I'd just let you run in without being able to help? I've got men around the whole area watching out. I haven't heard-," Mycroft cut himself short.

"Sir?" An agent popped his head into the office and signaled for Mycroft to follow him to the next room. He pressed a button on a switch board. A coughing and sputtering voice came through the speaker.

"The others… He killed them."

"Who killed them? Moran?" Mycroft had a hard time grasping what he was being told.

"Wilkinson," the MI5 agent rasped, sounding half like he had ran a marathon and half like he was drowning. "I think he's working with Moran. Cook and Hopkins," he paused to cough violently. "He turned on us, knocked me out and shot them. When I came to, I tried to get the upper hand but he stabbed me, right in the goddamn lung." By now, Mycroft could hear the faint sound of sirens in the background. "He's gone now, I assume he ran off after taking the shot at the Tower."

"Make your way downstairs to meet that ambulance. I'll get your full report when you're cleared." Mycroft turned off the com and put his mobile back up to his ear. "Sherlock, did Gregory call the ambulance?"

"No, I did as soon as I saw what happened. He hasn't checked in?"

Mycroft ended the call and dialed Greg. It rang for a minute that seemed like hours, then went to voicemail. Something was wrong, completely wrong. He slammed his fist on the table, making the laptop, tea cup and stacks of files tremble. If something happened to Gregory, Mycroft would leave no survivors. There would be no Crown Court, no judge or sentencing. Mycroft alone would be the judge, jury and executioner. He picked his mobile back up and dialed Anthea next.

"Who was the agent on the ground?" he asked before she could even address him. Mycroft searched the CCTV footage. He was watching it the entire time, but nothing looked amiss. It all must have happened within sixty seconds.

"Give me a second…yes, here it is. His name is Mason Saint Rabe, he's been with MI5 for about three years. Why? What happened?" Anthea's voice rose to a panic pitch.

"We've made a grievous mistake."


	16. Lost Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg gets to know Moran a bit better, Sherlock and John see inside a hospital, Mycroft makes his minions tremble.
> 
> "If you're trying to hurt me, you're going to need to try harder, darlin'. All you're doing at this point is pissing me off."
> 
> .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for coming on this ride so far with me! I think we're looking at a total of 20 chapters for this thing. I'm feeling pretty good about it but I'm excited to move on to my next fic :)
> 
> .

**Location unknown**

Greg's arms felt heavy and his head ached something fierce. It brought back faded memories of mornings at uni, hungover after a raging do. He was pretty sure he hadn't been drinking that much recently, though he couldn't quite remember exactly what he had been doing last. Something about Sherlock, he was sure, which was just so typical. Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, and something they all had in common.

He raised his hand to rub his aching head but was jolted to reality when he couldn't move his arms. The cable tie holding them together at the wrists behind his back dug into his skin with each pull and twisted the hairs on his arms. Oh right, an ex-military sniper set on revenge. Greg groaned as the scenery started to materialise in front of him. The dark and damp room smelled sour like fermentation and human urine, and he hoped it wasn't his own. He could hear the faint murmurs of voices and the steady drip of a water leak somewhere behind him. His ankles were tied to the metal legs of the chair and he had no way to stretch his aching muscles.

Greg tried to assess his surroundings but there wasn't much to go on. Dark, damp, quiet. It could be anywhere. He assumed it was somewhere underground. Alright, first thing's first: don't panic. Take a deep breath. Look for an escape route, a weapon, a weakness.

The chair fastened by cable ties to his ankles wasn't going to break under pressure. He may be able to snap the ones on his wrists, but he wasn't going to get very far with the chair still attached. There was nothing around that was sharp enough to use to cut the ties on his ankles. He might be able to slide the ties off the legs of the chair if he could fit them over the feet on the bottom. It was going to take time.

"Well, lookie here, Inspector! You've finally woken up from your little nap, eh?" A man in his early forties sauntered into the room and stood in front of Greg. He was tall and thin but with well defined muscles, sandy light brown hair and a clean shaven face. He didn't look menacing, really. He was wearing what looked to be tactical black pants, black boots, and a faded grey cotton shirt. "I'm going to need you awake for this next bit."

"I'm guessing you must be Sebastian Moran. Don't look like much to me." Greg smirked at him. He was rewarded with a heavy blow to his mouth that knocked the chair back a few inches. It landed with a thud and a skid and Greg's head swung in a circle. He could feel his lip start to swell immediately and the taste of fresh iron filled his mouth. He gathered up what he could and spat it back towards Moran. "If you're trying to hurt me, you're going to need to try harder, darlin'. All you're doing at this point is pissing me off."

"Don't worry, I'm just trying to pretty you up for your friends."

Moran pulled back and socked him in the eye this time, knocking Greg and the chair onto the floor with a crash. His head was reeling as it smacked against the wet concrete, increasing his pounding headache. Moran bent down and grabbed the chair back, pulling Greg into an upright position once more. Poking the bear wasn't necessarily a good idea, but knowing his opponent's strengths and weaknesses was going to be one of the only ways to get out of this. He couldn't imagine that he still had his cell phone in his pocket, and he wasn't sure if Mycroft or Sherlock could find him at this point. Well, he had seen Sherlock do some remarkable things, so anything was possible. And Mycroft wasn't without his own devious methods or resources.

The blurry silhouette of Moran was pushing buttons on a mobile when Greg looked up again. The gradual swelling around his left eye made it hard to see out of. By the time Greg was able to get Moran's face into focus, a light flashed and the sound of the camera shutter function on the mobile clicked.

"What's this then? You textin' that lizard man, eh? I had no idea you were in bed with the elder Holmes. Literally, that is. I guess he should get this beautiful shot of you instead of that pompous twat brother of his," Moran said, clicking on the screen of what Lestrade realized was his own phone. "Hopefully, Mycroft knows how to follow direction…" He trailed off as he walked out of view. Greg assumed by the sound of his footsteps receding, that he had left the room and gone up a set of stairs.

Establish location. He'd had training in this. Everyone had at least rudimentary training in hostage situations while in the training programme. He'd already looked around the room and found nothing of use. Greg closed his eyes gently, trying not to aggravate his damaged socket. The constant drip still. But behind that he could hear gentle rumbling. It took a while, but he was able to time it to about every ten to fifteen minutes. It had to be the tube. If they entered Westminster, and assuming he was out for no more than a few hours, it would have to be the night tube. The only night tube line coming out of Westminster was the Jubilee line. But then again, he could be far away from where he had started. He could only say for sure that he was underground, near the tube.

It was going to be useless anyway, unless he could get loose from the chair and somehow get past Moran on his way out. In truth, he didn't want to get past him per se, he wanted to take him down but he still didn't have a full grasp on what he was up against. He didn't know how many weapons there were around, how many cohorts he happened to have either, if at all. He would need to just work on getting his feet off of the chair legs for now.

* * *

**St. Bart's Hospital**

"…stable condition now. He's lucky the bullet didn't hit just a millimeter to the right, it would have hit his femoral artery. He must have an angel looking out for him." John came to as an unfamiliar voice was talking just outside of his view. The sun was just starting to rise, judging by the warm orange glow coming from the window. The queasy feeling in his stomach told him that he had been anaesthetised for some time so he assumed the bullet had been lodged in his leg, requiring surgery. The metallic taste in his mouth was too much for him to handle right now.

"Water," John called out to whomever was within earshot. A disheveled and haggard looking Sherlock pulled the curtain aside immediately, cup in hand. The relief on his face was unguarded and pain inducing.

"John," Sherlock said as he approached the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I was shot," John scoffed. "And I'm thirsty."

Sherlock didn't smile. He handed over the cup of water instead, gently brushing John's fingers as it transferred hands. "Drink it slowly," he said.

"Did you catch Moran?" John took small sips of water and rested his head back on the pillow.

"No. But…" Sherlock trailed off. He looked incredibly uncomfortable. John raised his eyebrows to encourage him to continue. "Lestrade is gone."

"Gone? Gone, gone?"

"Taken."

John's heart began to race. "Where? How?" What could Moran want to do to him? Surely they already had some leads on him. John's eyes scanned the room as if looking for clues to where Greg could be. He knew it was useless but it didn't stop him. He started to get up, but a shortness of breath caught him off guard.

"I think he can handle himself, John. Plus, Mycroft is on it, it's fine, really," Sherlock said, reaching for John's shoulder to ease him back to the pillow. John acquiesced and tried to relax. He couldn't do much from his position anyway. As he started to shut his eyes, an alert sounded from his mobile. It was inside his overcoat pocket, casually draped over the back of the chair Sherlock had sat down in.

"Ah, yes, that's been happening for the last couple of hours. Annoying really," Sherlock said offhandedly. John thrust out his open palm towards him. With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock reached into the pocket and retrieved the phone for him, placing it exasperatedly in John's hand. He had a new voicemail and multiple missed calls from an unknown number. He called his message system and listened to the voice message.

"John! There was an attack here at the manor, we're all okay, Rosie is fine, but I wanted to make sure you were okay. The men outside have it handled, his security men really are good, you know, but they tried to break in and they didn't make it past the front garden, I tell you. It was all a lot of fuss and the noise woke me up, but dear little Rosie slept through the entire affair. I do hope you're okay, dear, I haven't heard of thing from you or dear Sherlock and I worried that something happened to you. I called Mrs. Turner and she said all is well at Baker Street, not a peep all night, she slept cozy like a bug on a rug, the poor dear, she has no idea what happens around her. She wanted to stop by with some biscuits-" John rung off without listening to the rest.

"Mrs. Hudson was attacked. Her and Rosie are alright, Mycroft's security took out whoever had come by but he knows where we are all staying," John said. He looked around the room once again, resigned to his predicament. He had to have faith in the Holmes brothers, if not before, at least now. "You need to check on them for me, I'm obviously not in the best position right now." He nodded to his bad leg, bandaged on the bed.

"Since she was able to call, I'm assuming it's all been taken care of, what would be the point?" Sherlock looked earnestly at John, but John narrowed his eyes at him. "But…I…should…go check on them anyway? Yes, I should go check on them." He sheepishly got up and left the room. John smiled and laid his head back on the pillow. A heart of gold, but the obliviousness of a child.

* * *

**Whitehall**

Mycroft frantically searched the CCTV from around Bridge Street, trying to find a sign of this Mason Saint Rabe and Gregory. What a fool he had been. He should have checked out the agents himself. He could have compared pictures, or interrogated them in person. This could have been dealt with prior to this night. He could have taken Moran away then and there. Granted, he probably would have had to follow the law with his disposal of him. At least now he could be rid of him once and for all, with a resolute finality that would be satisfying.

He could see the man's silhouette standing at the front of the station, but his face was obscured in shadow. There was no way to make a positive ID. He mulled around, watching across the street towards the base of the tower until just before the bells started to toll, when he made his way across Bridge Street and was out of view around the scaffolding. Mycroft watched for anyone leaving the area of the tower, but nothing happened with certainty. There were shadows of movement, hints of what he could imagine happened, but nothing that said for sure.

Mycroft flipped between views, hoping for something. Anything. A light where it shouldn't be, a person looking in the wrong direction. There was no shortage of vehicles driving around the area either. It took a bit of searching, but he finally was able to narrow down a couple of vehicles leaving the area that could be Moran. Mycroft ran to the doorway to a group of his staff who looked to be making calls, checking with alternative agents, and generally not getting anything done. At least, it felt that way to him.

"Check these vehicles. NOW," he barked at anyone who would listen. A few of the people scrambled into his office and took the information about the suspicious vehicles he had found. With his sudden commands, the office agents began working in a frenzy under his watchful eye. Mycroft tapped his fingertips on the closest desk and scowled across the office. "Where's Anthea?" he demanded of the sorry excuse for a person at the desk.

"Sir?" Anthea popped her head out from a nearby office, saving the poor worker at the desk. "I think you need to see this." She must have come in shortly after his call to her about Mason Saint Rabe.

Mycroft stood behind her at a desk set up with multiple monitors, gripping the back of the chair she sat in. He wanted to break something, hurt someone, the same way he was hurting. This was the exact reason why he had always put up his walls. It was too easy to have something or someone you care about taken away from you. They could be used just to hurt you. Or it could have nothing to do with him, he was just a byproduct of the action. Either way, he hated it. Absolutely despised every bit of it. The loss in his chest rivaled what he had felt years ago when Sherlock had first overdosed. He blamed himself. He should have been there, he should have had eyes on the situation. He should have anticipated it. He could anticipate and stop a terrorist, but stopping his own brother from falling into the drug-induced rabbit hole seemed like a herculean endeavor that he just couldn't contend with. He'd let everyone down, and this time it wasn't planned. It was a complete miscalculation on his part and he could only contribute it to the softness and distraction that Gregory had been providing.

"I've used facial recognition software based off of the MI5 records of Saint Rabe. I scanned all of the footage from inside Winchester Station as well as every camera angle we have on the outside. I got a partial hit…here." She pointed to the screen. It was inside the tube terminal near the platform, two figures were standing together. They looked to be a couple of drunks taking the night tube going South towards Waterloo. "I followed them back through the station and they came in about ten minutes after the bells rang."

Mycroft watched the footage again. The two vagabonds walked across the street, one holding up the other, and then sat down outside the station for a few minutes. They looked to be gathering fare from passersby. To an untrained eye, it was nothing more than a couple of filthy drunks, one more intoxicated than the other. But Mycroft recognized the slope of the shoulders, the curve of the neck. Not twenty four hours ago, he had brushed his lips over that neck. He'd kissed it sweetly, breathing in the scent of the man he had so recently become so entangled with. The sight of him, barely using his own legs to hold himself up, sent Mycroft into a rage he had rarely felt before. He balled his fist and slammed it down onto the desk, making the keyboard and standing monitors bounce into the air. They came down like an aftershock as Anthea squealed in surprise.

"Get the car ready, I'm going to Waterloo station," Mycroft warned her. He reached into his desk drawer and withdrew a 9mm, checked that it was loaded and stuck it in his coat pocket. He stopped on his way out, grabbing his umbrella out of the stand near the door and stormed past the workers still in a frenzy. Before he reached the elevator, his mobile chimed in his pocket and he pulled it out.

New Text Message From: Lestrade

Media Message

Mycroft's breath hitched in his throat. He clicked to open the message. Greg sat on a chair, bruising starting on a few places of his face, blood dripping from his split lip. His head hung just slightly, like he was defeated, or more than likely dazed from the blows he received. But he was very much alive. The background was dark and inconspicuous enough, it looked dank and dirty, somewhere old, possibly underground. Moran probably wouldn't have wanted to haul a half-conscious body too far, so they had to be holed up somewhere around Waterloo station. It was the only reasonable explanation.

The message also contained a voice attachment and Mycroft clicked it open.

"Ah, Mycroft, as you can see, I've got your little pet. My demands are pretty simple. Get your ridiculous little brother and come find us. I want you to make sure he's with you. You do have a time limit, of course. For every hour I have to wait, I'm going to remove something from your Inspector. I'm not sure what yet, maybe a finger, a toe. Maybe a tooth. I'm waiting…."

Mycroft turned around and headed back to the team who looked bewildered in what they should be doing now. Anthea was already gathering a team together to accompany Mycroft to the station, but they stopped when he entered the office again.

"Trace this," he said, handing the phone to Anthea. She grabbed it from him and looked at the screen. Her face let him know that she understood the seriousness of the situation.

"I'll have someone analyse the sound byte while I try to find the towers it pinged. It may take awhile though. After I upload the information, you can have the phone back," she said. She looked him in the eyes with a stern soberness. "Let me gather a few of the best to send with you."

Mycroft nodded solemnly.


	17. Heart Beats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John spend some more time in hospital, Greg antagonises Moran a bit more, Mycroft tries to embrace his inner BAMF.
> 
> ""What the hell is wrong with you?" Sherlock seethed and shot a look at Mycroft. Mycroft replied with a panicked and exasperated shrug."
> 
> .

St. Bart's Hospital

After verifying that Mrs. Hudson and Rosie were secure, Sherlock made his way back to the hospital. It took longer than expected since Mrs. Hudson got on the topic of the roses in the back garden and how they weren't being let out to go see them after the attempted break in. There wasn't much about Mrs. Hudson that could ever irritate Sherlock, but leaving John in hospital on his own was not something that he really felt okay about. Granted, after he told her about John's condition, despite that he was stable, Mrs. Hudson all but pushed him out the door. She was determined to bring little Rosie up to see John later that day.

The sun was just starting to rise and the clear sky said it would be a mild summer day. Regardless of the impending good weather, Sherlock was in no mood to ruminate on it. He was caught between wanting to be by John's side and wanting to pursue Moran and save Greg. He was confident that with their new and obviously important relationship, Mycroft would be willing and capable of taking care of it, but at the same time, he wanted a bit of his own revenge and closure. He was back to taking cabs where he went now that Mycroft wasn't at his side and as usual, had no problem getting one the second he reached the pavement.

If Mycroft needed his help, he'd reach out, of course.

But if Mycroft got to Moran first, he'd never find out what really happened. Just like his dealer when he had overdosed. Not that he had tried hard to find him after that, he just never heard anything about him after. He never asked Mycroft either, and if Mycroft had his minions dispose of him, or if he himself had done the job, Sherlock never knew for sure. Mycroft wasn't known to get his hands dirty in a fight. Yes, he was protective, but he just wasn't the type to do the deed himself.

John was still resting as instructed when Sherlock arrived. He was a bit paler than normal, but with the blood loss it was to be expected. They had had their fair share of bumps and bruises over the years together, but hospital visits were less common. In fact, John had not been to hospital for an injury or illness related to a case the whole time they had known each other. It as odd to see him in that bed, wearing the uncomfortable hospital gown that scratched at the neck. Sherlock didn't have very good associations there in the sterile lights. Each time had been something drug related or case-related, something he knew was not good, something self-inflicted.

The last time he was here, he had almost died. But John had saved him. They had saved each other many times since they'd known each other. Sherlock owed his life, his current life to this man. This brilliant brave soldier that would do anything for him. Sherlock didn't have friends, not the same way that others would have. He had people who owed him, people he owed. Mrs. Hudson was more like a mother than a friend. She was irreplaceable, there was no doubt. Lestrade and his team counted on him, but did Lestrade consider Sherlock a friend? Perhaps not like the friend he had in John. John was maybe rough around the edges when provoked, but he was genuinely a good person; someone that people made friends easy with.

That was the thing about John: He was so easy to like. He got caught up on people's feelings too much sometimes, but that's what made him a good person and a good friend.

"John."

"Sherlock." John gave a weak smile. "How are they?"

"They're fine, John. You know Mrs. Hudson. She gets all worked up, but she can handle herself just fine." Sherlock sat down in the chair next to the bed, brushing off invisible dirt first. "You should get some sleep, I'll be here when you wake up," he whispered.

"You need to find Greg. You shouldn't be here, not on my account," John said as he coughed. "Sherlock," he started as he recovered, "you need to end this. You said you would do what I wanted and what I want-" He coughed again, this time a bit more laboured than before. "I want you to go find Greg and get rid of Moran!" John all but yelled in his frustration with his coughing fit. He started to get a flush across his face, but he wasn't angry. No, it looked to be a bit confused.

"John?" He was starting to look in pain, and Sherlock started to panic. "John! Are you alright? What's wrong? Talk to me! John!" The machines in the room started to beep rapidly as his heart rate rose and his face stiffened up. The nurses rushed in, calling for the doctor, but Sherlock refused to leave his side. He barely registered what they were saying, but he was sure they were trying to get him to back up.

"Dr. Watson, just relax and try to breathe as evenly as possible. I think you may have a pulmonary embolism. We're going to do an echocardiogram. Because you have a fresh wound, we need to be careful with treatment, but we need to make sure it is in fact a clot," a small but commanding man calmly told John. He had come to the other side of the bed, but John didn't look as if he was believing it. He looked in a panic and it didn't help Sherlock's fears at all.

A technician came into the room with a machine that looked like a computer screen on a pedestal. In all the confusion, Sherlock couldn't for the life of him put together the pieces. He had heard the words before, he was sure. But placing what they meant and what the machine was for was just not coming to him. His paramnesia forced him to stand dead still in the room, watching from the corner. Pulmonary Embolism. Pulmonary Embolism. The more he saw the words in his head, the less sense they made.

By the time Sherlock had come to, the technologist was performing the echocardiogram on John. His face was scrunched as he was laying on his side with his injured leg on the bottom.

"Yep, I see the clot. He also looks to have cardiomyopathy." The technologist was a plump brunette with a pinched face and a thick Irish accent. Her diagnosis sounded so cheerful with her accent, but the doctor seemed unfazed by her tone.

"I want to push thrombolytics. Let's start with eight milligrams to start, then a seventy-five milligram drip for two hours. Keep an eye on his femoral GSW. Cancel the drip if it becomes sanguineous, and let me know," the doctor instructed the nurse, then he gave John a soothing pat on the shoulder and left the room.

After everyone was gone, Sherlock slowly approached the bed. He reached out and stroked the stray loose hairs from John's forehead, smoothing them into a sweaty clump.

"I should have known my heart would be thicker after everything I've been through," John scoffed with a smile.

"Don't ever do that again. Not ever."

"What? Make a joke about my heart?"

"Don't ever leave, John. Don't ever leave me."

"Sherlock," John whispered, "It wasn't that bad. I'm fine. I'm not going anywhere. Easily treatable, it's not a problem." He slipped his hand into Sherlock's. It was warmer and more full of life than Sherlock had anticipated. He knew it was stupid to think that John was close to death just then; nevertheless, he felt it deep down where he hid all of his greatest fears.

"Your loss would break me."

Sherlock let that hang silently in the air while he listened to John's monitor's beep quietly. Mycroft had said something similar to him a little over a year ago. At the time, Sherlock had thought it a slip in his brother's mental status; a chink in his armour. But it turns out, they were both softening. Inside his coat pocket, his mobile buzzed.

"Needs must when the Devil drives," Sherlock said. "What is it now?" he demanded into the line.

"Meet me at Waterloo Station, Moran has him." Mycroft rung off before Sherlock could debate. John gave him a quizzical look.

"The best of New Scotland Yard requires not only the British government, but also a consulting detective." Sherlock rolled his eyes but with a squeeze of John's hand, he stood up and sauntered out of the room.

* * *

Near the Underground

Greg's ankles were raw from rubbing against the cable ties. Up and down. Back and forth. He was working like hell to get the ties over the stupid plastic feet on the chair legs. At some point, he would have to give up. He must have been at this for almost an hour. It wouldn't be long now before the blunt edge of the plastic started to cut into the skin.

He knew how to break the tie on his wrist;, that was easy. It was possible that the ties on his ankles could be snapped with a similar force. The next best thing was to try to exert some quick pressure on the ties. Greg leaned back just a bit to lift the front legs of the chair off the ground. He teetered for a second before pushing hard towards the ground while simultaneously pushing out with his feet, away from the chair legs.

It didn't have the effect he wanted. It only caused the ties to dig further into his flesh. It did, however, do something that he wasn't expecting. The small plastic stabilizing foot on the chair cracked, sending a sharp surge of hope through Greg. He leaned back once more and sent the front legs of the chair crashing into the cement again.

"Having a little kerfuffle with the chair, are we?" Moran must have been alerted by the noise Greg was making. He walked around to the front of Greg and put his hands on his hips. He looked so smug, Greg wished his hands were free so he could have a fair fight. He may be a bit out of shape compared to when he was younger, but the adrenaline in his system was erasing all of his doubts. He would probably pop him in the nose first. That satisfying crack it makes when it breaks would help. Then he'd land one on the diaphragm, to see the wide-eyed expression as his breath was knocked from his body. That doubled-over posture made him vulnerable to another hit, directly in the kidneys.

"Those must be some good day dreams you got going on there, Inspector. But I'm afraid I have to follow through with my threat. It's been an hour and your Holmes brothers have yet to arrive. So now we get to send a little gift." Moran pulled a heavy duty set of tin snips from behind his back. Greg winced. "What do you think would be acceptable? A finger? A toe?"

"Why don't you cut my restraints and we just go mano a mano, yeah? You afraid of losing to an old cop?" God, he was probably going to pay for that.

"Nah, I'd rather just keep up my end of the bargain." Moran looked at Greg's shoes. "I think we'll go with toe."

A sinking dread hit Greg as Moran bent down to mess with his shoes. As the laces loosened, Greg started to try to kick free of his range, but to no avail. He knew it was pointless but it didn't effect his urge for self-preservation. Moran was silent as he pulled off the shoe and slipped the sock over Greg's fidgeting foot.

"Eeny meeny miny moe, catch an inspector by the toe. If he screams, let him… well, I can't let him go, can I?" Moran's wicked smile didn't soothe him at all, but Greg assumed it wasn't meant to. He was caught off-guard by the cold steel surrounding his little toe. He didn't have time to think as Moran closed the snips down on his toe. The sound of bone snapping was almost as overwhelming as the burning pain that followed, causing Greg to go dark for about twenty seconds. His stomach lurched on arrival of his senses and he emptied it as far to the side as he could.

"Brilliant, Inspector. Good show. Mr. Holmes is going to love this one," Moran said as he snapped another photo with Greg's mobile. Greg wasn't sure how long he would actually last. He only had so many toes and fingers, and if Moran started in on his teeth, he would probably just give in to death and let it take him. He had lived a long enough life, right? He had a good career, he had a new love in his life. Mycroft wasn't always the nicest person in the world, but he was all his. He didn't have kids, but he didn't know if that was a prerequisite to a complete life. He had his niece, and she was great. His sister, his parents. He hadn't gotten around to giving them a call lately, let alone taking the train for a visit.

He couldn't really go out like this, could he? Tied to a second rate meeting room chair in the dirty forgotten underground of a half-finished tube station? Surely Mycroft or Sherlock would arrive at any minute to help. If only he had time to call in the cavalry before he was taken from the street above. Donovan would have the entire yard out looking for him by now. Granted, they weren't as good as Sherlock. They may not be able to follow the tracks like him. But numbers were surely in favor at this point, right?

Greg hung his head as the bits of stringy vomit slid from his lip and landed on his lap. The pain was still sharp and commanding from his foot, and he watched it pulse as it bled on the dust smeared floor.

* * *

Waterloo Station

Mycroft was rhythmically tapping his umbrella on the pavement outside Waterloo station, checking his pocket watch every fifteen seconds. It had been too close to an hour and he expected something from Moran at any time now. Sherlock was taking his sweet time. Should have sent a car.

His mobile beeped in his pocket and as he pulled it out, he hoped it was Sherlock with an update. Instead, it was another picture message from Greg's phone.

"Oh Christ," he whispered into the screen. His stomach dropped as he clicked the message. Greg still sat in the chair, still tied by the ankles, he arms still twisted behind his back. His shoe was off and it was obvious that the smallest toe was missing, a splash of bright red blood stained the concrete next to what looked to be a bit of vomit. Mycroft closed his eyes tightly and put the mobile to his forehead. Moran was going to pay. He was going to die a slow and painful death for this. He would leave him to rot in the same room he now held Gregory. He would be forgotten like everything else underground.

Mycroft abandoned his position and headed down the steps, not wanting to wait anymore time. As he hit the bottom step, he heard the unmistakable sound of Sherlock's Oxfords on the steps behind him. He passed the mobile behind him without turning around.

"Oh Christ," Sherlock said as he looked at the picture.

"Tell me where he is," Mycroft said. He stopped and looked around the platform, hoping for a sign without being told.

"Here." Sherlock opened a door in the corridor as if he had done it before, a quick upturn motion with a nail puller and they were through the mesh door without fuss. "I know exactly where they are. Do you remember the hat?"

"What hat? I don't want to play, Sherlock."

"Exactly, that hat."

"That Alpaca monstrosity?"

"Icelandic Sheep wool, and yes."

"Whatever. So a hat told you where Moran is?"

"No, a well traveled, anxious, sentimental, unfit creature of habit with appalling halitosis did when he showed me extensive maps of the Underground during your terrorism threat. This particular abandoned station was accounted for, but not on the line we were investigating. It was trivial at the time. It seems it can be good to have people in low places." Sherlock gave him a knowing smile.

"I know you like being right, but now is not the time," Mycroft retorted. Because yes, Sherlock was right when he ascertained that Mycroft was lonely. He was a bit at the time. In fact, he was actually a bit jealous of Sherlock's relationship with John back then, before Mary had entered the picture. He didn't want to come out forthright and admit it though. Being lonely wasn't something he could deny any longer, since he obviously found someone to share his time with. But envy…that he could keep to himself.

"It's always the right time for me to be correct. In fact, this is the perfect time for me to be correct."

Sherlock turned down a dark corridor and abruptly stopped, seeming to listen intently. His outstretched arm blocked Mycroft from moving forward and Mycroft did his best owl impression, turning his head from side to side with his eyes wide in anticipation.

"There's one- no, two men around that corner," Sherlock whispered and pointed to the right. Mycroft pulled out his gun and cocked back the hammer, filling the previously quiet way with a metallic click that bounced off the walls and made Sherlock turn his head slowly.

"Who's there?" a voice from around the corner shouted.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Sherlock seethed and shot a look at Mycroft. Mycroft replied with a panicked and exasperated shrug.

As the men came around the corner, Sherlock was ready. He reached out and grabbed the gun from over top of the man's hands, pushing down on his wrist with one hand while simultaneously pulling up on the gun with his other hand. Gun in hand, he used the butt of it to hit the man in the back of the neck, then pulled his knee up into the man's abdomen. The man fell to the ground with a wheezing sound and a thud, just in time for a second man to enter the fray.

Mycroft stood by, gun held out in front of him with the shaking confidence of a palm tree in a hurricane. He was pointing it at the man on the ground, which he knew was useless, but it didn't stop him from doing it. Sherlock gave him an exasperated look and punched the second man directly in the jaw as he came around the corner as well. He fell halfway on top of the first man. Mycroft waited open-mouthed for anyone else to come around the corner, but after ten seconds of no further noise, he slowly lowered the gun.

"Ah yes, thank you. You're a regular James Bond," Sherlock said.

"Just get on with it," Mycroft said, shaking off his fair share of embarrassment.


	18. An Exquisite Umbrella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Sherlock make a BAMF'ing entrance (sort of) on Greg. John isn't mentioned, but he's still in hospital....
> 
> ""You're a shite shot, Graham, so I know it wasn't you. And Mycroft couldn't shoot anyone if his life depended on it."
> 
> "You're a real arse sometimes, you know that, Sherlock?" Greg asked rhetorically."
> 
> .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting 2 chapters today because they are both on the shorter side. That means one more week to go!
> 
> .

**Near the Underground**

Greg's ankles were so sore from the cable ties that the prospect of Moran hacking off his feet completely seemed a lot more pleasant with each passing moment. But since he had stepped out again, it was high time Greg tried to disengage from the chair once more. His method of leaning back and slamming the chair legs into the ground seemed to be working last time so he did it again, despite every bit of him being in pain.

The first time was a success since one of the leg caps was already mostly removed from his previous attempts. The little foot on the chair cracked completely off, allowing him to slide the cable tie off the end and release his leg. For the other chair leg, he did the same procedure, only this time, he braced with his free leg and added extra pressure to the offending chair leg. It came down with a crash, bits and pieces of hard clear plastic scattered in all directions.

His sigh of relief was palpable.

Greg pulled his other leg off of the chair and stretched both legs outward for a long minute. Then grunting, he stood up, careful not to put too much pressure on his foot with one less toe. His wrists were still tied behind his back, but his focus for the moment was wholly on his legs. He was tired; his body was worn out and the adrenaline was gone hours ago. After his leg stretch, he sat back on the chair to gather some more strength. At least his legs were free, so once he was ready, he could snap the ones on his wrists and be ready to leave this wretched place.

Maybe Sherlock and Mycroft decided he wasn't worth it. Maybe Moran had killed Sherlock and Mycroft wanted to wash his hands of everything. It's not like he was worthy of someone like Mycroft anyway. He should really consider himself lucky for the time he had spent with him. It was a curse and a blessing. Something so new and fresh was always exciting, but he had actually felt like there was something more there. Something mature and long lasting. Something he had been craving for a long time. If this really was the end of it, he would really have to rethink everything that's happened in the past couple of weeks. Maybe even the last few years.

Greg stood up again, ready to be rid of the cables ties on his wrists. He braced his feet on the floor and readied his arms, testing the angle against his hips. With enough force, he should be able to snap them, but he had never actually done this before. It was all theory and instruction, no actual experience.

One. Two. Three. Footsteps sounded on the stairs outside the room's door and in his sudden panic, Greg sat back down and pulled his feet to sit as if they were still tied to the legs of the chair. The footsteps became louder, a pair of them.

"Gregory?" The voice was like music to his ears. A sweet symphony of tones that could only be one person.

"My…." Greg's eyes filled with tears as Mycroft moved in front of the chair, reaching out to him. Greg was too happy to stand, so he leaned weakly into Mycroft's frantic arms.

"Are you alright?" Mycroft asked as he used one hand to grope Greg for more injuries and the other still held his handgun.

"Well, my little toe is gone, but I'm not sure I had use for it in the past," Greg said with a half smile. Sherlock was rummaging around on the floor like a bloodhound, looking for God-knows-what. It didn't really matter to Greg though. He was just happy that they were here, he was free (besides his wrists still), and Moran was going to pay. Hopefully the trial would be quick and merciless.

"I found it!" Sherlock exclaimed, holding up the tiny bit of toe with his bare hands, as if he found the Holy Grail. He proceeded to pull a small bag out of his jacket and carelessly toss the toe into it. "We need to get this cold if they are to reattach-" He stopped suddenly as the butt of a weapon landed on the back of his head and he slumped to the ground.

"You two took out my guards, huh?" Moran was standing behind Sherlock's limp body, a SIG in his hand. Greg tried to push Mycroft out of the way with his hands still behind his back. Mycroft was apparently not having it. He grabbed Greg by the arm, the gun no longer in sight, and pulled him back. His other hand held his umbrella by the handle, pointing it directly at Moran.

"Oh, Ice Man, I don't think it's raining, but thank you anyway," Moran said. Mycroft let go of Greg's arm and slowly unsheathed the rapier hidden within the umbrella. Moran smirked. A simple Who brings a knife to a gunfight? sort of smirk. As Moran went to raise his gun, Mycroft stepped forward with one foot and swung his sword with a practiced ease.

It was a light, fluid swing that was meant to cut, not stab. It was a ballet and Mycroft was Baryshnikov in The Nutcracker. It just barely touched Moran but he jumped back like he was burned. His shirt was torn; a diagonal stripe across the front starting from his shoulder and ending near his hip. Moran looked down. A thin line of blood formed on the skin and shirt and when he looked up, he looked furious.

Mycroft couldn't win a gunfight with a sword, Greg knew this. He raised his arms as high as he could and braced his legs. In one swift movement, he slammed his wrists into the back of his pelvic bone, breaking the cable tie. He leaned towards Mycroft, pulled the gun from his waistband and shot at Moran. He didn't aim, he didn't take the time. He just raised his hand, cocked the hammer, and pulled the trigger.

Greg was not a good shot. He never had been. It had been years since we went through firearms training. It was required, of course, if he wanted to have access to one. He wasn't required to carry one in the field as a PC, but he knew that having the training and being licensed would increase his opportunities within New Scotland Yard. It did, in fact. He was one of the fifty percent that opted to have a firearm when needed, which meant that as he went up in rank, he also went higher up on the list for people to call when an armed officer was needed.

But having a firearm and being good with a firearm were not the same thing. Greg could occasionally let his emotions get the better of him depending on the reason for needing a gun, which could occasionally effect his aim. He luckily didn't need to have it on hand as often as he could have in other parts of the world. He needed to keep up his proficiency though so he did go to the shooting range every few months or so, mostly to keep up muscle memory. At the range, he had focused most of his efforts on aiming for a larger area: the chest. It was an easier target to hit than the head and it offered a bit more of a margin of error.

So Greg didn't aim, per se. If he had aimed, it would have been for the head, to be sure he got the fucker, once and done. But because he didn't aim, his body relied on the muscle memory he had been instilling into it since he started practising. His arm automatically aimed for the chest without being asked. But Greg had notoriously bad aim, especially under emotional duress.

So after he blinked a few times within a millisecond, and when his eyes focused on the target, he was surprised to see that he didn't hit him in the head, nor the chest. He had hit him in the throat, more on the right side than directly in the middle. The room was still for a second with all eyes on Moran. Sherlock stirred at Moran's feet before being missed narrowly as Moran's knees gave out and he slumped down onto the floor. He had dropped the gun and his hands came up to his throat as he fell. It was futile, but the body doesn't act based on if things are possible or not. Greg had seen death before and he had understood how it worked. The adrenaline that pumped through the body with a traumatic injury made the brain frantic in its last moments. This was what he was seeing now.

Moran wasn't going to get up again. In a few minutes, he would bleed out there on the cement floor. Greg would have wanted to watch him suffer, watch him closely as he took his last breath, struggling as the artery pumped into his esophagus. It would be painful, it would feel like drowning on top of the sharp pain of the wound itself. The revenge would be bittersweet, because revenge isn't what Greg was about. Despite what he wanted to do, what he felt he was owed, he turned away.

"Are you alright?" he asked Mycroft, who was still holding the rapier in his hand. His chest was heaving with the excitement of it all but his face wasn't stricken in horror or shock. He was angry. His head was tilted down further than necessary so he was watching Moran through his eyelashes. He was even panting a bit. "Hey, he's done. It's over." Greg reached for Mycroft's raised arm to slowly lower it. It was more stiff than he anticipated, but with a bit of coaxing, it slowly lowered to his side.

"Was that me?" Sherlock had apparently come to after the gunshot. He had propped himself up on an elbow to peer over at Moran's still body near his feet.

"Wow," Greg said. "Just wow. No, it damn well wasn't."

"You're a shite shot, Graham, so I know it wasn't you. And Mycroft couldn't shoot anyone if his life depended on it."

"You're a real arse sometimes, you know that, Sherlock?" Greg turned back to Mycroft but he hadn't reacted at all. He was still staring at Moran. There was a pool of blood forming under his head to his shoulders. The train gently rumbled on its way through the tube nearby, sending a deep hum through the room. Mycroft still didn't stir. He held his shoulders tight and his neck pulsed like a ticking bomb. Greg was afraid of what Mycroft's psyche was doing to him. He didn't know how often Mycroft had been around this kind of violence. Yes, he knew that Mycroft had worked in the field, that much he had mentioned. But what sort of fieldwork was it?

Mycroft finally uprooted himself and took the few steps towards Moran's body. He leaned in for a second to look at the slack face of the man who had made his night miserable. Then, he sheathed his rapier back into the umbrella casing, raised it over his head and proceeded to bring it down on the side of Moran's head, over and over again.

"Mycroft!" Greg scrambled to pull him back. The tines of the umbrella were twisted and bent from the effort Mycroft had put into his onslaught, but he wasn't stopping. Greg wrapped his arms around his midsection and tried to pull. Mycroft was planted in place, his knees bent with perfect form, slamming the mangled umbrella into the mangled face.

"You might as well let him finish," Sherlock said, standing up and rubbing the back of his head where the gun had incapacitated him.

Greg wasn't having it. He wrapped his arms tighter around Mycroft and pulled back with everything he had left in him, which wasn't much, but was enough to dislodge the taller man's footing. They teetered backwards until Greg was able to gain balance again and he reached up, one arm at a time and gathered Mycroft's arms into his body. The umbrella/rapier dropped to the floor and Mycroft choked on a shudder. He was heaving with the force of adrenaline.

"Shh. It's done. It's over," Greg all but whispered. He held him tight and smoothed his disheveled hair back down, cooing soothing words over and over. Mycroft's breathing evened out and he finally had a bit of recognition in his eyes. He looked up at Greg and mouthed a couple of words. I'm sorry.

"It's alright, Love. Now, do you suppose they can reattach my toe?"


	19. Swan Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Sherlock head to the hospital for their partners, John and Greg solidify their life choices. Mrs. Hudson gets a "yoo-hoo!"
> 
> ""An angel!" Greg exclaimed. Even his voice was far off in the distance, like an omnipresent being talking through him.
> 
> "Hardly," Mycroft said, but he smiled at the drug-induced state of the DI anyway. "Are you alright to have coffee right now?"
> 
> "Why? Are you made out of coffee as well? Because you look like a tall drink of something to me," Greg slurred out."
> 
> .

St. Bart's Hospital

Mycroft was sitting in the family waiting area of the hospital, drinking a cup of the worst coffee he hadn't needed to drink in many years. The last time he had spent any time in hospital, he had been in a similar waiting room, holding a similar cup of similarly disgusting coffee. He had been waiting to hear about Sherlock during his first overdose. At least this time, there wasn't an immediate threat. Greg was fine, he was just getting his little toe reattached. He was in the understanding that Dr. Watson was also still here, recovering from his gunshot wound and a pulmonary embolism. It wasn't that he didn't care what happened to Dr. Watson, on the contrary, Mycroft cared very much about Dr. Watson in his own way. He was the anchor that held Sherlock's vessel moored. Mycroft had already seen Sherlock go off the rails twice in regards to losing Dr. Watson and Mycroft had tried not to intervene too much. If Dr. Watson were to leave Sherlock for good, Mycroft feared for Sherlock's safety. And if anything were to happen, the repercussions would undoubtedly be far worse than before.

At least this time, he was in a much calmer ward of the hospital, away from the hustle and bustle of the intensive care or emergency ward. At least this time, he didn't have to drink this disgusting stuff.

He texted a coffee order to Anthea and threw away the full cup of automat flavoured water. She arrived only fifteen minutes later, a tray of gourmet coffees. Without a word, she handed him two and took the last for herself before throwing away the cardboard tray.

"You're the epitome of excellence as always, Anthea," Mycroft said.

"And I heard you beat a dead man with your umbrella." She smirked at him and pulled an almost identical doorman umbrella from inside her large handbag. He graciously accepted it and leaned it against his chair.

"Is it done, then?" he asked, a bit under his breath.

"All cleaned up, sir."

"And the men who attacked my manor?"

"Taken an unexpected trip to a wonderful part of Russia. I hear the Kuril Islands are quite nice this time of year." She sipped her coffee.

Mycroft hummed in agreement. "I do believe you need a raise, Anthea. Can you please schedule an appointment with me in one week's time?" Anthea pulled out her phone to make the appointment. "And then clear my schedule for the next week. I will absolutely not take a single call until the complete week is done." She smiled and nodded ever so slightly.

"Are you all set, then? Anything else I can get for you before I leave you for the day?" she asked.

"Here." He handed her a small piece of paper retrieved from an inside pocket of his jacket. "I need you to pick up these items and leave them at my manor." Anthea took the paper, stood up and left just as she had arrived, without a word.

Mycroft took a deep breath and sighed. He pulled out his mobile and clicked open an app. The livestream video wasn't as clear on his screen as it was on his laptop, but it would have to do. Eurus sat in her cement room, reading a selection of The Canterbury Tales that Sherlock had sent after his first visit. Mycroft had been apprehensive about allowing her to read too much, the chance that she would have greater influence over her caregivers was too great. They had agreed on a few selected works that they determined were harmless, or mostly harmless. They both felt that Chaucer, being classic and satirical with the right amount of light-heartedness, was a good compromise for now. She had read it of course, in her time at the first facility she was in, but it was a favorite of hers that they could actually allow her to have again, unlike Sun Tzu's The Art of War.

Sun Tzu had taught Eurus more about reading her enemy. It taught her strategy and how to wait for the right time to strike. It taught her how to appear weak when she was strong, and appear to go left when she planned to go right. She was seven when she read it, and though the concepts were not new to her, she was reinforced by the words. That was shortly before the fire at the first institution.

But Eurus was finally beginning to show some improvement. That visit with Sherlock allowed her to connect with someone on a real level. Not just a pawn in a giant chess game, but a real person who cared about her. It didn't make her less of an outside threat, but it was a step in the right direction, at least to a life worth living. Mycroft wasn't sure how he felt about having a real relationship with her. Yes, she seemed less hell bent on trying to destroy everyone, but he had been fooled by her apparent pacifism before, her apparent containment.

Still, a livestream of her room didn't necessarily mean that all was well and good. Mycroft messaged the new warden of Sherrinford.

New Text Message To: Sherrinford W

Army or soldier?

He received a response almost immediately.

New Text Message From: Sherrinford W

No army is better than its soldiers.

It was the correct response, a code to make sure all was well within the walls of the compound. He nodded to no one, placed the new umbrella over his arm and walked towards Greg's room.

* * *

Greg was still a little drowsy from the anesthetics but for some reason, lying in a hospital bed made him feel one hundred times better. Maybe it was the heated blanket they had placed over his legs, the soft glow of the sunlight coming through the window, or the extraordinary amounts of morphine flowing through his veins. Either way, he smiled. He wasn't looking forward to the paperwork, the interviews, the questioning. But at least it wouldn't happen in the next hour. He could rest for a bit, at least.

"Ahem." Greg turned to look towards whomever had cleared their throat in the doorway. It was as if heaven itself had sent him an angel. A glorious angel in a bespoke grey suit holding coffee.

"An angel!" Greg exclaimed. Even his voice was far off in the distance, like an omnipresent being talking through him.

"Hardly," Mycroft said, but he smiled at the drug-induced state of the DI anyway. "Are you alright to have coffee right now?"

"Why? Are you made out of coffee as well? Because you look like a tall drink of something to me," Greg slurred out.

"I'll take that as a 'no'. I'll just leave this over here for now."

Mycroft sat on the edge of the bed and placed a hand on Greg's thigh. "How are you, all things considering?"

"Mmm, you're speaking in rainbows, so I feel like I'm doing pretty good." Greg smiled.

"Just don't tell me if you start seeing unicorns, I'm not sure I'll be able to handle that." Mycroft rubbed Greg's thigh and it felt like silk on silk, the softest touch he'd ever felt.

"This is better than my uni days, much softer, the lights are a lot less… tingly." He looked at Mycroft who had a soft smile on his face. "Plus, I don't think I ever had such a gorgeous human being stroking my thigh like this."

Greg reached his hand out towards Mycroft who volunteered his own hand into it. Greg hummed in appreciated and closed his eyes.

**********

He must have drifted off. When he opened his eyes again, the light was different, a subtle shift of the angle that created different shadows in the room. Like a vigilant statue, Mycroft sat on a chair next to the bed, his mobile in hand. He hadn't noticed Greg wake yet. He looked like he was responding to bad news, typing with a ferocity that Greg had only seen come from Sherlock before. He hoped it wasn't anything in regards to Moran or anyone else associated with him. He was done with that for a long time. He didn't want to hear that name ever again.

Greg reached out again towards Mycroft. "Hey," he said gently. Mycroft instantly looked up and his face took on a look of angelic grace and concern. "What's going on?"

"Oh, nothing to be concerned with. It's all taken care of," said Mycroft, taking Greg's hand and giving it a gentle squeeze.

"OXAZEPAM?" Sherlock yelled as he entered the room wheeling John who was still in his hospital gown. "Use it in a sentence."

"Oxazepam: The doctor should prescribe you Oxazepam for your anxiety," Mycroft replied with his nose in the air.

"The Z on a triple letter score? You've cheated. I'll prove it," Sherlock retorted, parking John next to the bed between Greg and Mycroft and pulling out his mobile.

"Words with Friends?" Greg asked John.

"Words with Friends," John confirmed. The brothers continued to argue halfheartedly over the game. "How are you?"

"Me? I'm fine. Pretty sure all of my digits are intact now, thanks to the good doctors here. And Sherlock. I don't think I would have had the head to grab the damn thing on the way out, let alone remember to place it somewhere safe and cold. How are you?" Greg nodded towards John's bandaged leg.

"Oh, this little thing? It's nothing. Missed the artery, thankfully. Gonna look like Swiss cheese if I keep up this life," John said with a chuckle. He didn't even look that upset. Greg assumed it was something similar to his own feelings about getting injured while working: it was just a part of the job. It was the risk you take doing something dangerous. But he didn't need to keep doing this. He didn't need to intentionally put himself on the line, at least at work.

"Are you done with this then?" Greg asked, skeptical.

"God, no," said John, quite abruptly. Greg smiled at that.

"I'm going to go for that Chief opening."

"Really? I thought you didn't want to sit at a desk like that," John pointed out.

"I'll probably be sitting more than running for a bit anyway," he said, gesturing to his bandaged foot. "Might 'swell make it more permanent. Plus, I'm getting a little too old to be running around, asking to be hurt."

"I think that's a good idea, but who are we supposed to work with? Donovan? Would she get your DI position?" John asked.

"No, I refuse to work with that troll. No, you can't use Bosnian, it's English only." Sherlock had apparently been able to listen and argue within two separate conversations simultaneously.

"You got either Dimmock, or Gregson otherwise. I don't care who you work with, just follow the book," Greg aimed at Sherlock. He wasn't going to argue right now, not while John and him were both still in hospital, still groggy from the pain meds. He was decidedly feeling better though, more clear-headed. "I'll encourage her to go for it. She deserves it," he said to John. Sally wasn't so bad anymore. She had at least conceded that Sherlock wasn't a fake, or a murderer. She understood that he was essential, and appreciated by the Met. She was coming around to the concept of deductive reasoning, even if she couldn't do it herself. One day she would lead her own team and she would be a bit more open minded.

"And it's not like you're actually going anywhere," John confirmed.

"Right." Greg reached his hand out to Mycroft. Mycroft seemed hesitant at first at the blatant public display; he looked at both Sherlock and John before making up his mind and interlacing his fingers with the ones reaching out to him.

* * *

They had lapsed into a comfortable silence, besides the occasional chime from Sherlock and Mycroft's mobiles. It had been a long two days. It had been a long few years, really. But John wasn't lying when he told Greg he wasn't done with this lifestyle. Even if he wanted to quit, John couldn't see it happening. He may take it a bit easy with Rosie in the picture, but he couldn't outright leave the consulting detective business. If he ever did, it would have to be a consensus between him and Sherlock, because it Sherlock didn't agree, John couldn't actually stop either. It was either this, or leave Sherlock altogether. And that was not an option.

He looked at Sherlock who was sitting on the other side of Greg's bed, mobile in hand. He was mouthing words, completely incomprehensible to John. It didn't matter what he was saying. John was happy to be alive, happy that Sherlock was alive, happy everyone was safe.

"Yoo-hoo!" Mrs. Hudson's unmistakable voice filled the tiny hospital room. She was carrying the squirming bundle of Rosie in her arms, just barely able to contain her. "I hope you are both ready for a whirlwind!" she said, putting Rosie directly in Sherlock's lap. Rosie reached up and hugged him like she hadn't seen him for days, smiling and babbling in his ear.

"Come to dada, sweetheart," John said. He reached out to take her from Sherlock but she gripped him tight around the neck.

"Sherr! Sherr!"

"Oh, really? I'm the one injured in hospital and she wants you?" John laughed. He wasn't really mad. If anything, Rosie being so close to Sherlock was a good thing anyway.

"Don't be jealous, John. You know she loves you."

"Of course, I know that," John said, nodding his head ardently. He watched her hum against Sherlock's neck. "I'm glad she's so attached to you. It will make moving back in so much easier." That made Sherlock smile. John would never tire of seeing that full smile. The one with the squinted eyes and lips pulled back to his ears. He still had a bit of guilt over how he treated him after Mary died. It was unfair how he blamed him. It wasn't his fault that Mary had a dangerous past, that she had her own enemies.

"Ah, yes. You're quite moved out of your flat now, yes?" Sherlock inquired.

"Ah, haha, no. With everything going on, everything came to a standstill. I haven't even got to meet the fellow who was looking to rent it."

"I'll take care of it. I'll pick you up here tomorrow when they release you." Sherlock held Rosie out for a kiss from John and then turned to leave the room. "Hudders?" He raised an eyebrow to Mrs. Hudson.

"That's my cue, boys! I'll see you at home tomorrow then," she said, giving John a kiss on the forehead. "It's been lovely, dear, do give my best to David and Jim and Hugo, Mr. Bell and Mr. Pearce. Oh, and Anthea." She patted Mycroft on the arm. "Do come visit, Greg, Sherlock and John are just not the same without you." And with that, she tottered after Sherlock.

John gave a pointed look to Greg and smiled. Mrs. Hudson was almost too good at rolling with the punches. She was a stable asset to John and Sherlock and he was glad she had been safe at Mycroft's. For the first time in forever, John felt oddly comforted.

There was no reason to say that they would go on to live dull safe lives from here on out; that was the appeal. John didn't want a dull and safe life. He needed it safe enough to raise his daughter without being paranoid everyday, but he also needed the excitement that Sherlock always came with. He needed to feel the street under his feet, his heart beating like a drum as they hid around dark corners. He needed to feel that rush of connecting the dots, watching a suspect's facial expressions, and the relief of listening to Sherlock explain how he solved the case.

Honestly, he was eager to get back to a somewhat normal state of affairs. A good cup of builder's, reading the paper, watching Sherlock teach Rosie how to identify different species bees. He could imagine the hive on the rooftop, savoring the sweet honey, a tiny set of safety goggles for Rosie as she watches Sherlock do his experiments. She may have a strange upbringing to look forward to, but at least she will have people who care deeply about her protecting her.

Mycroft stood up and squeezed Greg's shoulder tenderly. Then he leaned in and whispered something into his ear, making Greg smile.

"Yeah, see you in a bit," Greg told Mycroft. Mycroft smiled back and then turned to John.

"Dr. Watson, I'm… glad you were not critically injured. I wish you an expeditious recovery."

"Mycroft, that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me," John said.


	20. Both Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of a happy ending.
> 
> .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for coming with me on this journey! It was a fun ride!
> 
> .

**Mycroft's Manor**

"You really didn't need to get me a wheelchair," Greg said as Mycroft helped him into it at the side of the sedan. "They said I could use my leg as long as I keep the boot on."

"Yes, well, I'd rather you not take chances, Gregory." Mycroft pushed the chair in through the front door, careful to avoid the door frame and the threshold jostling him too much.

"Really, My, I'm not an invalid. You don't have to be so gentle. The boot's protecting my toe, it's fine," Greg pleaded. They crossed the entrance and Mycroft waited until David had brought Greg's bags inside the door before dismissing him for the day. There had not been not a second thought on what would happen next when Greg was in hospital. Mycroft knew he would need a little extra care in his day-to-day activities, so he hadn't even conferred with Greg on him staying over for a bit. Greg hadn't fought him either when he was told.

Mycroft looked at Greg and pursed his lips. He dropped his hands to the side and heaved a heavy sigh.

"Gregory," he started, in a patronising tone. "Let. Me. Take. Care. Of you." He raised his eyebrows at Greg and waited politely for a response.

Greg looked up at him lovingly. "Okay. I concede."

Mycroft instantly relaxed and put his hands back on the wheelchair handles. "Good, because I have something for you," he said. He pushed the wheelchair into the dining room. It had taken him hours to complete this; the state of the dining room and what was currently happening in the kitchen. He didn't want to have to hold the guilt of knowing that someone else had made this beautiful surprise for Gregory. The dining room was filled with lit white candles on every available surface that wasn't for eating. The table had a centerpiece that rivalled the setting for a royal wedding. Red and white roses spilled in a cascading display like a waterfall, originating from a tall crystal vase. They trailed out like vines and swirled around but didn't interfere with the two plates set out. Mycroft had selected a particular French Malbec and it was open and breathing on the table where he had left it before helping Greg out of the car.

"Wha…?" Greg couldn't finish the word. He was sufficiently speechless, which was Mycroft's intent.

"I told you to let me take care of you," Mycroft said with a smile. Greg raised his head, sniffing the air.

"Is that… is that lamb?" Greg asked. He wet his bottom lip with his tongue.

"You have an excellent nose. Le Gigot d’Agneau, to be exact," Mycroft told him. "Green beans, and pommes de terre dauphines." Mycroft knew it would incite something in Greg. He anticipated it.

"You made…?" Greg almost looked hurt. "My grandmother used to make pommes de terre dauphines. And I haven't had a lamb roast since I last visited my parents, probably five years ago." He choked up towards the end and he wiped away a tear.

"I'm sorry, Gregory. Did I make a mistake?"

"No, no, it's…" Greg looked for the right words. "This is wonderful. I can't believe you did all of this. For me." Mycroft wasn't the best cook. He relied mostly on takeout or restaurants, but he had the knowledge and the ability to research when needed. He had spent the last eight hours watching videos and reading recipes and then getting everything prepped and cooked. The leg of lamb should be done any minute, and the dauphines and beans were finished and waiting in the warm top oven. Gregory was worth every second he spent on this. Every little bit.

"Gregory, this is a mere taste of what you mean to me," Mycroft said. "Plus, I hear a 'congratulations' are in order. Seems you are no longer just a Detective Inspector." Greg eyed him suspiciously. "So I hear," he added quickly.

"Thank you. I thought it was strange that they gave me a week holiday before discussing terms. Get your fingers in that, have you?" Greg asked with a smile. Gregory was right, of course.

"There really wasn't a need. The superintendent was quite amenable," Mycroft lied. It didn't matter what he had to promise or threaten to the superintendent, it was worth it. "So," Mycroft said, rubbing his hands together, "The roast is just about to come out. Please, get comfortable and I'll bring dinner out."

* * *

Greg got up out of the wheelchair and hobbled his way to the dining table. He brushed his fingers over the velveteen blooms on the table. He didn't know what the colors represented, if they were intentionally chosen or not. He just knew that they were beautiful. The candles bathed the room in a warm glow that enhanced the vintage of the architecture, bringing it back to what he could imagine was its original glory. The house was such a contrast to the man that lived in it, so it seemed. Mycroft was all clean lines and sharp edges, while the house had details of romanticized floral embellishments. Mycroft was cool stares and the house was warm light. But they both possessed a quality that was timeless.

Greg reached out to grab the open bottle of wine and pour a couple of glasses. He spun it around and around in the glass and watched it before taking a sip. It was a French Malbec and it was rich and heavy and it was going to settle nicely with a lamb roast. Greg tried to track the last day in his head. Mycroft had texted a few times, asked a few questions, but nothing that eluded to this. It must have taken him all day to plan this and set it up. The dinner alone would have taken a few hours to complete, not to mention the dining room decorations. That is, if he had done it himself. He had a full staff that were capable and (pay-dependent) willing to do it.

"No, I did it myself, thank you very much," Mycroft said, coming into the room holding a serving plate with the lamb. He always had a way of knowing exactly what Greg was thinking. Earlier on, it would have bothered him. But now, he found it rather endearing. It kept things rather simple, eliminating the need to speak every thought or concern.

"I didn't realize you had it in you. I didn't realized you even cooked," Greg confessed.

Mycroft smiled. "I don't, normally. But I find that being around you makes me want to…be better. I've pushed a lot of people away because of circumstances regarding my career and past," he said. He placed the platter on the table then went back towards the kitchen. Greg was left wondering if that was the end of the thought. He knew Mycroft was not a sociable person and he knew that this show of feelings was probably something very new to him. It wasn't easy letting someone in after conditioning yourself to push them away. Given all this, Greg didn't want to rush anything, but he knew a good thing when he saw it.

"But with you," Mycroft continued when he reentered the room holding two plates filled with food, "I thought it was time that I got over that silly notion." He placed the plates on the table and sat down in the chair anticlockwise from Greg.

"Which silly notion is that?" Greg asked.

"The one which states that caring is not an advantage. That showing how you feel is a weakness, something to bury from the light of day." Mycroft looked at him with an intensity that made Greg's heart race.

This sort of vulnerability was different than the night he held him. This was different than the shaken man after his day with Eurus. This was not in a state of panic, not in a state of dread. He was thinking rationally and had thought this through. He made the decision to open up to Greg willingly and with a heartfelt plea. He was asking for more. He was asking if Greg felt the same way.

Greg raised his glass to him. "To us?"

* * *

**221B Baker Street**

John looked up the stairwell at 221B Baker Street and sighed. His crutches were acceptable, but they were too similar to his cane in that he hated them. They were just two aluminum rods, nothing spectacular. They were lightweight and easy enough to handle. But it wasn't what they were that bothered him, it was what they represented. It was what they reminded him of. They reminded him of his weakness, and the time in his life when he thought he had nothing to live for. He had been discharged from the army and sent home after hospital. He refused to go back home, and he wasn't on good speaking terms with Harry. With nowhere to go and no one of importance to talk to…

John shook his head of the thoughts. He was past that now. It was all gone and things were only going to get better. He could hear Rosie's laughter upstairs in the flat, high pitched and ringing like a bell. She never failed to make him smile. He closed the door and prepared to make the ascent up the stairs. As he took the first step with assistance from the crutches, Sherlock opened the upstairs door. He stood there a moment staring down at him.

"John," Sherlock said. He looked relieved. John chuckled.

"It's going to be awhile, you might as well go back in and wait." But Sherlock was already descending to meet him. John had only made it to the first step by the time Sherlock got to him. He stopped in front of John, his already massive height exaggerated by the steps in front of John. "Oh," John huffed.

"I'm glad you're back."

"Yeah, me too. I'm back," John whispered into Sherlock's chest. Sherlock reached his arms around John and hugged him close. It was home. This was the home John had been craving. The warm fuzzy feeling that made his stomach do flips. The home that welcomed him no matter what happened, the home that just felt right. John leaned into it but he had to keep his hands on the crutches to stay upright. "Did you leave Rosie wandering the flat all by herself?"

"John, do I look like some sort of monster?" Sherlock asked with a smirk.

"No, just my high-functioning sociopath," John said heavily and adjusted his crutches to continue his journey up the stairs. Sherlock moved to the side and John leaned into the next step. But Sherlock hadn't moved to let him pass, he wrapped his arms around John and lifted him up like a bride on his wedding night. The crutches crashed to the floor with John's heart and he let out a squeal of surprise. "Sherlock, put me down! What are you doing?"

"Stop squirming, you're making this impossible," Sherlock said. Sherlock was surprisingly strong despite his wiry frame. John's fussing and the clatter from the crutches drew Mrs. Hudson from her flat and she came rushing out with a butter knife in hand.

"Oh, boys! You gave me a fright, dears!" She looked back and forth between the two for a second. "Oh, did you two finally tie the knot?" she asked happily.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm not-" John stopped himself and went another direction, "I'm not able to walk very well."

"Oh, I know, dear! I'll bring you up a cuppa," she said, tapping the toe of his foot that dangled at eye level. Sherlock smiled and huffed and carried John up to the flat where Rosie was waiting inside of a new playpen opposite a nice desk. Sherlock had rearranged the room, allowing for a safe space for Rosie to play while John was able to comfortably sit and write. The chemical set and experiments were nowhere to be seen, just nice clean rooms, like ordinary people. There were no body parts in jars, no burners, not even a microscope. And John would've bet anything that the refrigerator was clear of anything non-food related as well. There was probably milk in there, too.

"Dada, dada!" Rosie called from the side of the playpen. John was stunned into silence. He looked around the room and his eyes briefly followed the line of the stairs beyond the front door as he wondered about his old room.

"Yes, I thought about that as well," Sherlock said before John could even ask. "I have her cot down here for now, until you're well enough to take the stairs daily."

"And me?" John asked.

"I… I assumed you… we…" Sherlock gestured to his bedroom down the hall a bit sheepishly.

"Oh. Oh. Right, yeah." John thought about that for a second. "Is that what you want?"

"Even if it wasn't what I wanted, I hardly think it would be sensible for you to sleep upstairs with a leg wound like that," Sherlock said, shaking his head a bit.

"Yes, but do you want that? Is that-" John gestured towards the bedroom as well. "-what you want?" John didn't want to assume, and he didn't want to impose. He was pretty certain that he knew the answer, but he was aware of the risk you take when assuming something with Sherlock.

"It would please me greatly." John was still held in Sherlock's arms, his face incredible close to the detective's. He let out a huff that shook the loose waves of hair at Sherlock's temple and smiled. And who says there are no happily-ever-afters? Why shouldn't he be allowed to have what he wants and what makes him happy? Why shouldn't Sherlock be allowed the same?

"Yeah. That's good. Good, yeah," John said. "Um, do you mind…?" John looked up and down and then to his chair.

"Oh, of course," Sherlock agreed, bringing John to his chair and setting him down gently. Mrs. Hudson came up with the tea and some biscuits but she just smiled her knowing smile and left as quickly as she came in. There was a comfortable silence while Rosie went back to playing with her toys, Sherlock poured the tea and John took the scene in. The day's paper sat on the table next to him, so John reached over and pulled it into his lap. He skimmed it over and took the cup that Sherlock offered him.

"Mmm," he hummed at the headline. "Double murder in Lancaster. Police find no clues...." He lowered the paper an inch and raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. Sherlock gave him a twisted smile, but he pulled out his violin and sat down in the chair opposite John.

"Plenty of time for that once you're healed," Sherlock said offhandedly. John looked at him incredulously.

"Solved it already?"

"Called Gregson first thing this morning. They're picking up the murderer as we speak."

John hummed and turned the page.

**Author's Note:**

> Updating weekly with a new chapter. Hoping for 20-25 chapters in all.


End file.
